


For the wrong Reason

by HoneyPiePuzzle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mary Morstan Doesn't Exist, First Kiss, First Time, John is a good man, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft is just his usual charming self, Post-Reichenbach, a bit of Angst with a happy Ending, actually several first kisses, it's always been a love story, my boys know how to fight, the boys are awfully awkward but they'll figure it out, the boys finally learn to talk to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-10-23 14:24:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10721130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyPiePuzzle/pseuds/HoneyPiePuzzle
Summary: Sherlock’s sudden reappearance after Reichenbach makes John suddenly acknowledge potentialities where before he’d seen only amicable closeness. Especially when both find themselves chased through the dark during a case involving drugs and guns and loosing seems the most likely outcome. Sherlock, to John’s immense discontent, refuses to answer any questions and John is very angry with him. So it is only to be expected that kissing because you’re feeling weird about one another but might not live to tell the tale anyway doesn’t really make things easier…





	1. Seven Years of bad Sex - or something

**Author's Note:**

> The whole story started with a picture in my head of Mycroft grinning at John over the roof of a black car in front of 221B. Well, see where it got me.  
> I have to thank my wonderful, eloquent and devastatingly patient beta-reader Kisa for helping me smooth the ruffled feathers. Pondering ideas with you, darling, actually always made my day.  
> Thanx also to Stacy and auris who also helped a lot along the way.
> 
> This is my first Sherlock fic and I am still learning. Which is a lot of fun, actually.

author's note: Just for trying to set the mood for this chapter: There is that superstition that it means seven years of bad sex if you don't look into each other's eyes the moment you clink your glass to someone. Some people strongly live by that. If you've never heard about that before, now you have.  


**Chapter 1**  
  
**„Seven Years of bad Sex or something“**  
  
**note: Sherlock learns about social habits - and doesn’t like it one bit**  
  
  
"Tell me again, why I am here," Sherlock demanded as he and John left the cab. John saw him burying his hands deep in the pockets of his coat and shooting him an accusatory glance over the roof of the car.  
John heaved a sigh. They had been through this quite a few times during the last hours.  
"We are here because Scotland Yard wants to celebrate the capture of those drug sellers with us."  
"But there are going to be people. And they didn't do anything to begin with, it was--"  
"Yes, Sherlock," John interrupted him and suppressed an impatient flicker as he looked back at Sherlock who stepped to his side in front of the restaurant in central London.  
"Yes, you are the genius that did it all. Please don't tell everybody too often tonight, I want to be invited to a truly outstanding restaurant again!"  
"Oh, John, please! You know how I hate exchanging pleasantries if it isn’t absolutely necessary." Sherlock's voice dripped of disdain.  
"If it is just the restaurant, we could go anytime…”  
"Sherlock, for the love of god!" John turned around, facing the other man and grinding his teeth.  
"Now would you stop being petulant. Greg and his team did help a lot, it’s their job. Don't ever forget how they don't have to let you participate at all."  
"And how much help they were", Sherlock muttered a little too loudly for John to miss.  
  
_______________________________  
  
  
Ever since John moved back into 221B Baker Street a few weeks ago after Sherlock had resurfaced from the dead, (returning to the only place John had ever called home in his head had seemed the logical thing to do) there had been a certain tension between them. They had thoroughly lost their equilibrium. John noticed time and again how hard it was to get back to their old life style after two years of him trying to move on. And failing gloriously. It had nearly shattered him to watch Sherlock step off a roof to his “death” after Moriarty’s dreadful campaign to destroy his reputation and make everyone believe Sherlock was a fraud. A thing John had never believed, not even when Sherlock told him it was true. Which it wasn’t. He didn’t know why Sherlock had told him that.  
  
He had fled 221B and rented a room in another part of the city. During his first night out in his new flat when he had tried to calm down with whisky he realized how much life with Sherlock had truly fulfilled him and what he was going to live without now. He missed their crime solving and the outstanding amount of trust and comradeship the soldier in him had always found so appealing. He had asked for a miracle, for Sherlock not being dead but for two solid years he dragged himself from day to day, trying to cope, trying to be a normal guy with a normal life, trying to blend in and hide the pain. He met uncountable women but felt only briefly blissful.  
  
Living with Sherlock as a flatmate had always come easy to him. John had never minded his experiments cluttering their kitchen table, his playing the violin at ungodly hours, his general annoyance with the world, his particular shade on the autistic spectrum. How he himself never ceased to be amazed by Sherlock’s direct and on-the-spot deductions. How Sherlock shared the teensy exceptions, the tiny things he didn’t get right by 100% with John only. John had idolized him greatly, there was no denying it.  
He had felt happy, whole. He should have been happy now as well… only he wasn’t. He was torn between yearning to understand why Sherlock had been cruel enough to let him watch how he jumped to his “death” and feeling relieved that it had just been a fake.  
  
John realized his thoughts had gone a little astray as was their habit lately when Sherlock was close. It was an irritating mix of restless and frustrating anger and blood swirling concern, intersected with an insecurity he hadn’t known before and this new territory terrified him greatly. He was in control most of the time now, though, after he had completely lost it when Sherlock reappeared in front of a little pub John liked to have his lunch at one day. He’d nearly broken Sherlock’s nose in the process. Once he was alone in his flat afterwards he had cried, a whole new experience for him, but it had washed most of the shock from his system. To the world punching Sherlock in his dishy face still seemed an appropriate reaction, though. A reaction John had felt strangely proud of afterwards.  
  
It didn’t help matters that Sherlock either thought he deserved the rough treatment John showed towards him when frustration and insecurity were just too strong to hold back. Or maybe Sherlock simply didn’t care. Sometimes he would sit in their living room, though, entirely focused on something John couldn’t see, face completely blank. Or he would spend hours in his mind palace, flipping his hands through empty air and John had to move their furniture out of his way. John mused how this was connected to whatever it was that Sherlock had done while he was away. Perhaps it was just his own personal way of fighting his demons and John found that making him play the violin usually helped.  
  
John turned his head around to Sherlock inside the revolving door when they entered the restaurant and saw his face set into stressed lines. But when grey-green-blue eyes met dark blue for the briefest moment, John believed he saw an appraising flicker across Sherlock’s face, calculating. John felt his temperature rise but the moment was gone before he could delve further into it. He stepped into the foyer where a waiter greeted them and showed them to a room in the back of the building where Lestrade was waiting for them at the door.  
  
______________________________________  
  
  
All in all it was a pleasant evening. Lestrade and his team had been able to capture a group of drug sellers that had been selling to minors, causing two deaths in the process. The case in itself would have been no more than a 4 to Sherlock, as he had pointed out to John on several occasions, and he probably wouldn't have bothered with it in the first place. But, as John was constantly reminding himself, Sherlock Holmes just couldn’t cope with boredom. Their wall was ample proof - some things just never changed.  
  
It had been insufferably easy, giving Sherlock no reconciliation whatsoever, to judge the gangsters, who loitered around schools and parks to sell their stuff, to trap them at it and send five of them to prison. Unfortunately no one seemed to know the location of their drug lab. Furthermore, two of them were able to flee the scene of their capture without having their faces seen, giving Lestrade a sprained ankle in the process of pursuit.  
  
John was standing with his second glass of champagne next to Molly, several detectives and Anderson, who was chattering animatedly and had just finished his fourth glass, in a corner of the room Scotland Yard had booked for the evening. He felt stupid smiling as Anderson launched into the glories of policemenship. How John should have considered taking this as a career after leaving the army. John was thankful for the distraction as Lestrade limped into their group.  
  
Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.  
  
“John, can I have a quick word?” Lestrade staggered tipsily when he put his arm around John’s shoulders and pulled him out of the loose circle. John was nevertheless thankful and together they sauntered into the direction of the back garden. Lestrade raised his champagne glass and clinked it to the rim of John’s glass. Both smiled to each other, Lestrade bending forwards to stare into his eyes over-dramatically, and drank.  
“Just wanted to thank you again,” he said but John just shook his head.  
“It was nothing, just Sherlock being…”  
“A genius, as usual,” Lestrade chipped in. John shrugged. There was nothing else to say on the matter. John saw Lestrade’s face taking on a very paternal expression.  
“I missed him. Hell, even Anderson missed him. And you, for that matter. Police work just isn’t the same without you.”  
“Yes, it feels good to be back,” John admitted and opened the door to the back garden. Lestrade followed him out and John had to grab his shoulders to steady him.  
  
“It’s really good to see you back with Sherlock, mate, you didn’t seem yourself after… you know…”  
He stopped.  
John froze for a second, caught off guard by an array of increasingly complex feelings. He licked his lips before forcing them into a straight line and gave the D.I. a guarded look.  
“Yeah… that sounds… weird, coming from you, Greg,” he said before clearing his throat.  
“But thank you… in a way…”  
  
Did people truly see that in them? Two parts of the same entity with the only option of fitting closely into each other? Unsound without the other part? Actually telling him to his face was a new feat, though. He knew people talked about them, they always had. But it was usually in low voices behind their backs.  
  
Just a week ago Molly had told him the same when Sherlock had been to the morgue with him, fussing over the body of a teenager supposedly killed by adulterated drugs their suspects had sold. She had been waiting for Sherlock to go about his business and asked John to the kitchen for coffee, both knowing it would take Sherlock at least half an hour before he was satisfied with the results of Molly’s examination on the bodies. John had felt completely dumbfounded when she stated how pleased she was to see them back together. It must have been quite a struggle for her to sound careless. And, despite growing anger, John had blushed madly, his ears tingling as if Molly’s word had burned him. He had been in a rush to leave as soon as convenience and courtesy allowed.  
  
Lestrade continued, totally oblivious to John’s inner turmoil.  
“It must have come as a blow, seeing him surface again. Actually, I was so relieved. I have always wanted to know… Did you two… mmmh… talk about… your… mmmh… it all?”  
John stood rooted to the spot. He didn’t know what to say. It got worse when he saw Sherlock approaching them from somewhere in the murky back garden, tight smile plastered on his face. John’s stomach suddenly clenched with anger and uncertainty despite the carefully calm surface of his face. Of course they hadn’t talked! They never had, at least not about something as meaningful as that. Terribly intimate things had always happened between them but it had been nothing he had ever questioned. Because there had never been any need to talk about it. Because with Sherlock such things as “personal space” and “boundaries” simply didn’t exist anyway. So it had always been perfectly normal. Everything had changed when Sherlock came back, though. It had forced John to acknowledge potentialities. And to feel like a coward about it.  
He looked down at his feet.  
  
“Ah, Sherlock, there you are. Enjoying yourself?”  
Count on Lestrade to be completely oblivious. John clenched his fist around his glass of champagne and hoped the ever omni-observing detective hadn’t been eavesdropping.  
But Sherlock gave nothing away.  
“Tremendously,” John heard him answer.  
“Just a bunch of “friends” celebrating an event, how lovely.”  
Looking up without meeting his eyes John noticed Sherlock’s glass was still half full, the champagne presumably gone stale. He chuckled under his breath because he knew Sherlock wasn’t much of a drinker, anyway.  
Lestrade proved to be a different matter.  
“Such a charmer,” he said good-naturedly and obviously had to suppress a giggling fit. Then he raised his glass.  
"Let’s not get this champagne go to waste,” he announced and Sherlock gave John one of his long-suffering-looks.  
“Here's to you guys and your crime solving."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but raised his glass nevertheless.  
“Just because it’s you, Gideon, I will forgive your drunken state,” he said and put it to his lips. But Lestrade stopped him, wide-eyed.  
"Wait, you need to clink your glass to mine and look into my eyes, otherwise it's seven years of bad sex."  
John, having raised his glass himself, fought a heavy giggling fit seeing Sherlock stop in his tracks and give the D.I. a sarcastic look.  
"Seriously? Superstition? My, you must be more drunk then you let on."  
Sherlock shook his head but Lestrade nodded emphatically.  
"Yes, that's what you got to do and because it also affects me here, Sherlock, don't be the grinch. Seven years is quite a time and I just got divorced."  
  
The D.I. raised his glass again, an expectant look in his eyes. Sherlock's lips turned into an annoyed line.  
"Why would I care about a stupid saying that only serves as social kit for drunken people?" he exclaimed.

 _Here he goes. So Sherlock._  
  
"And in what universe is there a connection between neglecting a bad social habit and bad sex? Ah, and don't you think three years would be enough to scare every drinker off, since we're talking about symbolism anyway? Did you know what percentage…"  
"For god's sake, Sherlock, give that man what he wants,” John interrupted and raised his glass. Lestrade looked like he’d had serious trouble keeping up.  
"To social kit and good humour with friends.", Lestrade said after shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. He clinked his glass to John’s, looking him full in the eyes, then turned to Sherlock with a questioning look.  
  
Sherlock succumbed.  
"To social stupidity and other stuff I don't need to understand."  
Their glasses clinked, Lestrade drank happily, John smirked and Sherlock rolled his eyes.


	2. Dating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanx again to my awesome beta-reader Kisa; without her it wouldn't have worked at all.

**Chapter 2**  
  
**„Dating“**  
  
**note: John and Sherlock talk about dating and both are sharing the same opinion: the other is deluding himself**  
  
  


A few days after their celebration John took the tea kettle off the stove and poured water into two cups standing on the counter. It was still an hour until he scheduled to meet an old university friend along with his friend's wife and her sister, whom he was to be introduced to tonight. He was wearing his favorite shoes, a close fitting dark blue jumper and had his hair combed back nice and casual. A quick look into the mirror in the bathroom confirmed he was looking his best tonight. He felt good, everything was back to normal, him going out on a date and Sherlock staying in, doing whatever it was he did. He’d dated a lot of women, John mused, trying to ignore the certain tone these words had. It had become an integral part of his life in the last two years. He liked dating, it was fun most of the time and he usually didn't give it a second thought when it didn't work out. A casual and distracting way to spend free time and John had never thought about stopping it just because Sherlock had become the center of his every day life again. It seemed ridiculous, John told himself, to stop just because he was feeling weird about Sherlock Holmes lately.

Sherlock was lounging on the couch, for once with his own laptop, three untouched cups of tea gone cold on the coffee table, wearing his silk pajamas and nightgown. He was wiggling his toes on the small table in front of him, narrowly avoiding the teacups and a saucer with three human eyeballs, his full concentration directed at the screen of his laptop. 

They had been sharing a lazy afternoon in their living room, John reading a book and Sherlock playing the violin for hours. John had felt perfectly comfortable, Sherlock’s soft music lulling him into serenity. When he had asked Sherlock what he was playing, the other had just hummed at him.

"Sherlock, I am going out," John announced when he put a fourth cup of tea next to Sherlock on the table.  
"You put enough sugar into my tea?"  
"Yes. Sherlock, did you listen?" John was rolling his eyes. It had become a certain routine between them these past few weeks, John telling him he'd go out on a date and Sherlock intentionally ignoring it.  
"How many scoops? -- I can't believe I overlooked how human eyeballs react to high temperature on close -- John, hand me that book over there."  
He extended his arm in John's general direction, making a hurrying gesture. John shook his head.  
"Sherlock, are you listening to me?" he repeated, but Sherlock obviously wasn't.  
"John, the book."  
Sherlock became impatient, beckoning him with his hand without looking at him.  
John huffed, then reached for a book lying on the kitchen table and put it in Sherlock's hand with force.  
"Two scoops of sugar, three stirs, spoon is in the cup, now will you put your feet off the coffee table, the eyeballs alone are indecent enough."  
“Since when has living with me ever been decent?” he heard Sherlock mutter but after a second he lifted up his feet and put them grudgingly onto the carpet.

John just hummed, feeling very pleased with himself, took his own cup from the counter. He sat down in his favorite chair, taking this morning's papers and burying himself behind them.

Sherlock kept on muttering about eyeballs, tapping manically on the keyboard of his laptop, while John tried to ignore him. When his cup was empty, he put on his jacket and left the flat. He didn’t notice how Sherlock’s eyes followed him to the door.

____________________________________

 

Three hours later he opened the front door of 221B Baker Street and crept into the hallway. He took off his jacket and stepped into his flat. Sherlock was still sitting on the couch, his feet back on the coffee table, toes wiggling alongside eyeballs and muttering under his breath. John took off his shoes and then collected the four teacups gone cold from the coffee table to rinse them in the kitchen sink. 

"Have you eaten anything today, Sherlock?" he asked and Sherlock snapped out of his frenzy.  
"Why are you taking my cups away?" he inquired indignantly, shutting down his laptop.  
"Because it's all gone cold hours ago."  
John fixed two new cups and when the water was boiling he added a healthy swig of rum into his own.

When he turned around, Sherlock was blocking his way.  
"You were saying earlier?"  
John pursed his lips.  
"That was hours ago as well, I've been out on a date."  
"Yes, you were and it was bad," Sherlock stated.  
John huffed again.  
"How do you know this time?"  
"Okay now, let me deduce for you," Sherlock exclaimed, taking his own teacup and returning to the couch from where he gave John a mocking look-over that made John’s heart pound annoyingly. His brows furrowed.  
Sherlock lifted his right index finger and pointed at him.  
"You're wearing your favorite shoes, your hair looks good, you left with an aura of anticipation and now you're back after only a few hours with hunched shoulders and an air of gruffness, ready to spend your night with booze at home. But that’s probably too obvious.“  
Sherlock sounded annoyingly self-satisfied.  
“There is a small smutch of colour on your upper lip, could be mistaken for lipstick, considering the fact, that you have just been on a date. But I am sure it is nothing of that sort whatsoever. I presume it is sauce from the dessert you had. You said you were going to this ridiculously expensive Italian restaurant on Oxford Street and they serve their Panna Cotta with wildberry custard. You are a sloppy eater, John. You didn’t kiss her good-bye or the smutch would have been more of a smear, so that means her company wasn’t delightful enough. Therefor it went bad.”  
Sherlock was steepling his fingers under his chin, talking very fast.  
“Doesn’t seem to go well these days, you always get home before midnight.”

John could just stare at him and shake his head slightly.  
Sherlock’s next words practically dripped of sarcasm.  
„There really wasn't the slightest chance of you spending your night somewhere else? I still have an experiment going on."

_That hurts, thank you._  
  


John bit the insides of his mouth, averting his gaze. It still occasionally took him by surprise how Sherlock’s right-on-the-spot deduction made him feel ridiculous, cutting through him like a sharp knife through delicate tissue, instantly grasping what was wrong but offering no reconciliation. Not that John would have expected him to in the first place. Still, it stung and he was touchy these days.  
John felt himself getting angry.  
"When was the last time you had a good chance of spending your night someplace else in delightful company?" he muttered and flopped down into his chair, fuming.  
"Why, your company is most delightful, John," Sherlock said matter-of-factly and picked up his phone. John was flabbergasted. That man was really clueless sometimes.  
"Mmh, Lestrade really hasn't got anything new for me. God, I am so bored. How do you cope with that every day?"  
"Sherlock, you're acting the high-functioning sociopath again," John said, getting up to retrieve the bottle of rum from the kitchen drawer.  
"I am not acting, I am just trying to figure out how life with an ordinary little mind would be. Ah, got it, absurdly boring", he muttered, his voice rough and dark. John rolled his eyes and chuckled under his breath, feeling only mildly annoyed now.  
"You are always at war with the world, I know. But I am not playing your game today, Sherlock, so shut up."  
"No, I won’t because I just don't understand why you bother with that sister of your friend's wife's. She looks so dull."

_Is that why he's so annoyed?_  
  


The potential meaning behind Sherlock’s words sank in a moment later and John’s eyebrows shot upwards.  
"How do you know?"  
"Googled her."  
“You-- What?”  
Sherlock growled.  
"You told me this morning you were meeting her, it doesn’t take a genius. I don't know why you still care for dating, though. It sounds tedious. If you would have just asked me before, I could have saved you a trip into the city center and the money you spend on her for dinner. Actually, I am shocked you haven't made sure she was worth your while. Or…” Sherlock sat straight up on the couch and shook his hand dismissively, a sardonic smile on his lips.  
“Or are you setting so much store into this stupid clinking of glasses, looking into each other's eyes and how bad sex cannot happen to you with that? Did you clink your glass with that woman tonight? Lots of good it did you."

Sherlock looked smug now. John couldn't believe it. He felt a faint warmth creep into his cheeks and his fingers turned sweaty. Why on earth would this impossible man go and google his date? He licked his lips.  
"Sherlock, you know this is just a saying. And since when do you care how I go about dating and other … things? I thought you were above such trivialities like girlfriends, boyfriends," he shot back.  
“Trivialities are not my area.”  
John let out a puff of breath.  
“I can imagine.”

They fell silent for a few minutes, while Sherlock busied himself with a pleat of his gown. He didn’t seem to be done yet. John was watching him out of the corners of his eyes.  
“Jealous?”  
“Don’t be ridiculous. I said trivialities are not my area.”  
John nearly laughed.  
“Very subtle, Sherlock.”

Sherlock had sounded a little too defensive but then seemed to gather himself and rolled his eyes dramatically.  
“You know it is totally beyond me how people regard it as desirable to engage into certain activities in order to gain physical well-being just because societal conventions dictate it’s convenient, even prestigious? And yes, listen closely, because I may under certain circumstance be inclined to think that it could be worthwhile if one is and I shudder to even say this out loud: in love with the other party involved. But then again, our culture is full of stories about questionable things people do when they are in love.”

Sherlock looked like he was giving a speech, his eyes were flashing as they always were when he was completely convinced by what he was saying.

“But engaging with anyone only mildly attractive into said activities without the excuse of love positively is a chemical defect and here we are at the beginning again. These chemical dysfunctions and defects are trivial and therefor really not my area. And I say that as a chemist. How can you properly judge situation and circumstances when impulses and hormones are chasing each other in your body and you end up losing control?”  
Sherlock seemed to realize he had gotten carried away and gave John a melodramatic hand gesture that clearly emphasized his lack of sympathy for how John could actually rank these kind of carnal experiences over those of brain and intellect. John was perplexed how Sherlock could have gotten so worked up about the potentialities of dating, for god’s sake. It wasn’t like they were debating these topics on a regular basis. He didn’t even know Sherlock was interested in these kind of things. Or that he had ever though about them in the first place. It was highly unusual and John wondered exactly why they were having this conversation.  
“Sherlock, calm down, I was only out dating. Having fun, not getting myself-- engaged.”  
He shook his head in slight disbelieve.  
“But you know, some people treat these experiences and their possibilities with casual interest?” he asked a moment later and couldn’t quite keep the mockery out of his voice. Sherlock gave him a mock-pained look.  
“John, I assure you that I have indeed heard about something like that. But have you ever known me to do casual when anything important is concerned? Casual is a concept unacquainted to me. I either do something properly or I refrain from doing it at all.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, his features momentarily blank. But then he smiled mockingly and a soft glimmer appeared in his eyes.  
"That naturally doesn't mean I want you to be unhappy, though. You may think I don’t know what I am talking about anyway, so if you must, go ahead and get casually involved."  
He gracefully lifted a long-fingered hand to make a throwaway gesture, his eyes focused on John, who was quite flabbergasted. For a moment he wondered whether Sherlock was making fun of him while wishing deep inside him that they had had this conversation years ago.

“Okay, if you really want to play this game, first things first, Sherlock: Your definition could also apply to doing drugs. But you could say I am basically producing this argument because doing drugs touches your style of life. And second: Seriously-“  
John chuckled, trying to mask his sudden interest with friendly concern, leaned towards Sherlock and put his elbows on his own knees.  
“Is that Sherlock-speak for ‘I have never engaged in an intimate relationship because I have never been in love?’ You sound like you’ve rehearsed that definition of yours. Sounds a bit defensive to me, though. And rather old-fashioned.”

Sherlock didn’t have the grace to blush or look sheepish.  
"If that’s what I strike you to be I won’t correct you. Still, it sounds like a tedious waste of time, chasing people to… get involved with.”  
“How did you confirm that without having ever been… involved yourself?”  
“By deducing you and your night’s ordeal, John.”  
John licked his lips.  
“Well, since we are being frank about it anyway, you didn’t rule out love as a leading factor, Sherlock. It sounds like you by any chance haven’t ruled out the possibility of getting involved yourself… at some point in your life.”

They had migrated towards each other on their respective chairs during their verbal exchange and John found himself transfixed by Sherlock’s pool of wide grey-green eyes. The other man was looking quite intently at him and John saw the corners of his mouth crook into a lopsided smile.

But then Sherlock's phone beeped and his attention instantly snapped elsewhere, leaving John at a loss, feeling feverish and in need of a good swig of his rum tea.

Picking up his phone Sherlock’s face became all business, their conversation seemingly already marked off.  
"Just the thing to distract me from my night's ordeal. That was a message from my homeless' network.”  
He sounded delighted.  
“The two drug dealers Scotland Yard let escape were just seen driving to a storehouse in London Harbor. I'll get dressed."

And off he swept into his room only to return a minute later, shrugging into his coat.  
"Come on, John! Let's go out and have the real fun!"  
With these words he practically bounced out the door and John had to hurry to gulp down his tea for he felt he needed the extra amount of rum now more than ever.


	3. Trapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanx to my wonderful beta-reader Kisa.

**Chapter 3**  
  
**„Trapped“**  
  
**note: Things don’t go as smoothly as planned**  
  
  


When they arrived in the storehouse area that Sherlock’s homeless network had informed them about, it was just after midnight. It was dreadfully cold, even for late January and John zipped his jacket while he took in their immediate surroundings. He was still feeling weird and oddly unstable due to their exchange before that he’d been nervously pondering throughout their whole cab ride. 

Sherlock had already taken off on his long legs, dark cloak billowing behind him. John cleared his throat and followed, feeling fatalistic all of a sudden. Sherlock’s head turned when he caught up with him, lips forming an expectant smile.

Behind a clay-bricked storehouse, a dark figure beckoned to them. They followed it silently down a narrow alley, between two houses looming before a waxing moon. John felt an eerie shiver sliding down his back and took out his mobile to text Lestrade. But Sherlock stopped him by putting his hand over it, shaking his head and taking the phone out of his hands. John’s brow furrowed, his fingers tingling where Sherlock had touched them. 

They tiptoed to a staircase at the outer wall of the old building, and climbed the stairs silently. They reached a window which overlooked a small roof of a lower building, and had an equally small yard in between. The yard, moderately illuminated by street lamps, was closed on three sides by walls, a gateway leading off into the darkness of an alley. A transporter was parked in front of the open gateway, but no one was in sight.

Sherlock silently opened the window and got up on the ledge to lower himself onto the roof, where he crouched onto his stomach to look down into the yard. John noticed that their guide had disappeared. This was weird and left him with another eerie shiver. He followed Sherlock down to the roof and lay next to him, bumping Sherlock’s elbow in the process. Both men looked at each other and John noticed with a pang that it felt highly inappropriate, considering their current location how close they suddenly where.

“What are we doing now?” he whispered, crouching low to ensure that they couldn’t be seen from down in the yard. They heard rumbling noises from beneath them.  
“We wait until the dealers show up.”  
“How do you know they will? I haven’t seen anyone here so far.”  
“Don’t worry, they will. See that transporter there?” Sherlock motioned to the car standing in front of the open gateway. John nodded once.  
“My informant tells me they’re moving their equipment tonight, because Scotland Yard is too close. Finally Lestrade gets it right.”  
“Why can’t I text him and tell him where we are? He can get his team here in 20 minutes. Give me my phone.”

The look Sherlock gave him was offended.  
“And spoil all the fun?”  
John didn’t get the chance at a reproach because he suddenly saw a movement from the corner of his eyes at the window which they had climbed out of a few minutes ago. A man appeared at the crossbar.  
He instantly reached for his gun… and found it wasn’t there.  
In an instant his world became mute and he felt his blood pressure rise. His soldier mode kicked in.

“Sherlock, someone knows we’re here…”  
He saw Sherlock fidget next to him, saw how he instantly caught up, mouth drawn in a thin line. Their eyes met for the duration of a heartbeat and suddenly there was something in Sherlock’s eyes John had never seen before. Sherlock’s eyes were intense and glistening, his attention seemed to be focused entirely on him. John nervously licked his lips.

Sherlock suddenly had his phone in his hand and John saw its bluish glow turn Sherlock’s features ghostlike. His brain clicked, coming to the right solution. Sherlock saw, and tilted his head once into a curt nod.

They were still crouching on their stomachs, John lying behind Sherlock, the space between his back and his waistband terribly empty because his gun lay in the drawer at home. How could he have been so stupid to forget it?

John knew he had to force all attention on himself now. He cleared his throat and, turning to the window, made a show of scrambling noisily to his knees. It worked, and he saw the man at the window raise his gun at him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed Sherlock silently dumping his phone into the gutter.

The man who had appeared at the window didn’t seem to notice. He was busy grinning viciously.  
“Boss won’t like that much,” the man said, motioning for them to rise. They did, slowly, hands raised and heads high.

A second man appeared at the window, mirroring his companion in raising a gun. John swallowed heavily and found that he had positioned himself in front of Sherlock, semi-blocking him. His chest was heaving laboriously, his brain drowning out all the white noise around him as he tried to estimate their chances for escape, finding them rather limited. In just a few moments, their evening had turned from entertaining to life threatening. 

_Great._  


Time was ticking by in slow motion. Or maybe John’s mental capabilities had accelerated. There was suddenly so much space in his head, and for a moment, he wondered if this was how Sherlock always felt. Maybe that was why the slender detective got bored so easily.

He moved first, then he looked back at Sherlock who was clambering in behind him through the window again. His dark curls were wild, his hands clenched into fists, his graceful back was straight, and his face was drawn. One of the men held a gun to his head while the other was guarding John. No one said anything.

John’s brain somehow felt unattached from his body and his anger evaporated. In stressful and threatening situations, he tended to go astonishingly focused - one of the advantages of a military schooling.  
Their eyes met. Sherlock’s eyes were a green sea, his face pale in the darkness. Their hands brushed when Sherlock walked past him, sending John’s skin tingling again. Somehow, the touch of Sherlock’s skin was the one thing that felt the most real in their situation. John’s throat felt very parched all of a sudden.

They were searched for their phones and weapons before the men forcing them down the stairs at gunpoint. They walked through a door into the small building that they had been lying on top of before. John found his hands, which were raised above his head, were steady - the urge to protect Sherlock overwriting every nuance of fear he might have felt otherwise. 

When Sherlock suddenly stumbled on the last step of the staircase, John took a good look at their surroundings. The front door through which they had come in earlier was too far away to make a dash, even in the unlikely case that Sherlock could equally detach himself and follow. And with the guns that he felt at the moment pointed at the back of his head, that option was fairly out of reach.

A third man stepped into his field of vision when they reached a low door under the stairs. The next moment, a fist connected with John’s jaw. His knees buckled and he fell to the floor, seeing stars.  
“Don’t even think about it, man,” a voice above him resounded. John felt strong hands grab his arms and jacket, hurling him back to his feet. The man guarding Sherlock had stepped closer to the tall detective, and pressed his gun onto his pale temple, forcing his head to tilt into an uncomfortable angle. John noticed that Sherlock’s hands were clenched into fists.

“Don’t move, or I swear I’ll shoot you myself,” John heard the man say to Sherlock. Their eyes met again, Sherlock’s gaze flickering to his lips. Time was still going by in slow motion, and looking at Sherlock with a gun pressed to his head, John’s mind flew back to that dreadful day when Sherlock had jumped off the roof. There had been blood everywhere, staining the pavement. Sherlock hadn’t moved, his gaze congealed, his life had been smashed out of him… and John had felt so numb and helpless… His mind wrapped around Sherlock with a bullet in his clever brain, eyes extinguished. 

John’s nerves were raw. He couldn’t afford to lose Sherlock again, no matter the cost. He would do anything to keep him safe, and the inevitability of it crashed through him like lightening. He was determined, adrenaline punching through his veins. His fists clenched together, his heart went wild. No more death…

The man laughed viciously, oblivious to John’s inner turmoil.  
“Lock them into the office and then see about storing the equipment,” he told the other two men before turning to Sherlock.  
“I don’t know if you told the police where you are, but considering the fact that the oh-so-famously clever Sherlock Holmes works alone, you probably haven’t told anyone. So no one will come looking for you yet, but when they do, we will be gone.”  
The man turned to his companions.  
“Don’t shoot them, we don’t wanna attract too much attention. But we’ll make sure they don’t run.”  
Having said these words, he opened the low door under the stairs, and John was shoved inside behind Sherlock. Then the door closed, plunging them into total darkness.


	4. Talk to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanx to Kisa, my awesome and patient beta-reader.

**Chapter 4**  
  
**„Talk to me“**  
  
**note: John tries to talk to Sherlock.**  
  


“Uff.”  
John bumped hard into Sherlock in the darkness, feeling him sway. For a moment, Sherlock had both his hands at John’s elbow and chest, his breath in his hair. As he pulled away, John heard something crash to the floor and Sherlock cursed under his breath. A neon light suddenly flickered into being, drenching them in a cold white-blue light.

“I should have known there were three, but we still have a chance. They haven’t killed us,” he heard Sherlock mumble.  
“So far.”  
John didn’t like Sherlock’s last two words. He looked around, troubled. He was still riding an adrenaline high and needed to calm himself forcefully.  
They were in what appeared to be in a small office, no more than a few square meters, no windows, and hardly any space. Sherlock threw his shoulder into the door but it didn’t open. 

_Great._  


John raked his hair and became aware of a puckering on his face where the third man had hit him. It hurt and he cautiously flexed his jaw and let his tongue slide over his teeth to check for damage, tasting blood, but there was no need to worry too much about that now.  
Turning around, he noticed Sherlock staring at him, and their eyes met. John cleared his throat.  
“That was quick thinking with my phone, Sherlock. You called Greg?”  
“I wrote him a message.”  
“Good. I won’t ask how you know my code.”  
“Haven’t we been through this, John?”  
The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a humourless smile. He took a look around before his gaze flickered back to John, and stepped closer, raising his right hand to John’s jaw.  
“Your lip is bleeding.”

Sherlock’s cold fingers touched John’s lower lip and John’s body reacted instantly by automatically gripping Sherlock’s wrist, holding it into place. Sherlock continued to stare into John’s eyes, his hand slowly cupping his face. He was so close it would have taken no afford at all to- 

“I am--,” Sherlock began, but John, remembering where exactly they were, cut him short.  
“Don’t say you regret taking me along. We would both be hard-pressed to believe it.”

He exhaled deeply and stepped back, touching his face where Sherlock’s fingers had handled him just a second ago. He found it quite a struggle to casually roll his eyes at Sherlock now.  
“It’s alright. Just promise me that the next time you suggest going out and having fun, you’re taking me out to dinner or drinks. Somewhere a lot warmer… and a lot less frightening.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. John temporarily had the feeling Sherlock may have wanted to say something completely different. Unbidden pictures came into his mind of how a night out between them could potentially end. Him, lying in Sherlock’s bed, dark curls in his face, gentle pressure on his hips, soft lips catching on his name…  
John shook his head, trying to clear it and passing the pictures off as an aftermath to the earlier conversation in their sitting room. There was no time now for idle daydreaming, or for pondering potentialities. 

_Focus._  


Sherlock was still standing directly in front of him, grey-green eyes staring at him. John couldn’t deny that his heart went wild, his cheeks burned. Or, would have burned, if it hadn’t been so dreadfully cold. Nevertheless, he had to turn around and hide his face and the thoughts that he was sure were written all over it. His heart ached. 

_I wish I were brave enough for this._  


He felt like a fool. Again.  
In order to mask his confusion, he pressed his sleeve onto his lip. It came away bloody. Can’t help it now. He nervously checked his watch. 43 minutes past midnight. It shouldn’t take Lestrade too long to notice the message Sherlock had texted him and come to the right conclusion. Then he would just have to track the phone. So much for theory.

He heard Sherlock shuffling around the room and judged it safe enough to turn around again.  
Stumbling in the dark earlier, Sherlock had bumped into a small shelf that had clattered to the floor, blocking half of the door now. John leaned down to pick it up again. Whatever was about to happen, from now on, he wanted the space in front of the door unclaimed by rubbish.

Meanwhile Sherlock was panting angrily, his complexion set, hands ever moving.  
“The telephone is no use,” he spat, lifting a disconnected receiver off of a table at the opposite side of the door and then tossing it back. Apart from that and the little shelf, there wasn’t much in the room to work with. No chair or computer. Nothing that could protect them from a gun, be hurled at their kidnappers, or be used to open the door.

Facing the inevitable, John slumped against the wall, his lip throbbing. There was nothing they could do now but wait. He felt Sherlock watching him from where he stood and decided that it couldn’t be helped. They were cold, he was bleeding, his head ached, and there was no possibility of forcing their way out of the room right now. Slowly he heaved himself off of the wall, walked over to where Sherlock was leaning against the table, and sat next to him. All of his energy had evaporated, the adrenaline high had subsided, and he suddenly noticed how worn, tired, and frozen he was.

Sherlock fidgeted next to him, pushing himself away from the table. He paced the room for the next five minutes before slouching against the wall where he slid down to John’s feet.

“No, don’t sit on the floor, Sherlock. You’ll get too cold. Come here.”  
Sherlock rose again, and carefully, as if testing the air between them, sat on the table next to John. His ridiculously long legs touched the floor where John’s couldn’t. John was shivering, visibly now, and Sherlock inched closer.

“Add that to the list of things people might talk about. You and me, trapped in a small room, with no means to stay warm but each other.”  
He could hear Sherlock exhale, his breath forming little white puffs in the unmoving air between them. Their thighs touched, but John was in control again.  
“I’ve had worse within the past two years, John”, Sherlock said and it sounded rather matter-of-factly.  
“Me too, believe me.”

Both started to chuckle and it felt as inappropriate as giggling at a crime scene. Here they sat, trapped, and likely to be shot at anytime, laughing because they couldn’t contain themselves. Everything just felt so unreal, especially when Sherlock cautiously put his arm around John’s shoulders to offer more warmth.

When their laughing subsided, both kept silent for a minute, while John pondered exactly what Sherlock’s last comment had meant. He had asked him where he’d been during the two years that John had believed him to be dead, but Sherlock had stubbornly refused to answer. John’s heart ached again when he thought about how lost he had been. He was wondering now whether Sherlock had been lost himself.

Sherlock had started to shuffle his feet on the dusty floor. Both were compelled to start speaking, but Sherlock’s voice proved to be more determined.  
“Look, John, I am sorry about tonight. I certainly didn’t want us to end up here. It must be your danger fetish that keeps you from living a quiet life, making you run around with me instead.”  
“Yeah, I was actually pretty bored without you.”  
John turned to Sherlock, looking him over. He found him returning his gaze, something incredibly intense, soft and tender going on behind his eyes. John cleared his throat, deciding to be brave.  
“Sherlock, why did you…”

But he didn’t get far. Sherlock turned his head away from him, his arm rigid on John’s shoulder.  
“Don’t ask me questions now, John, please don’t,” he said in a painfully low voice that was completely devoid of the mirth they had just shared. And when Sherlock turned again, his eyes seemed too old for his face.  
They looked very sad as they took him in.  
“I see how upset you are with me, and you have every right, but please don’t make me. You said you wanted me to stop being dead, and I heard you. That’s enough.”  
“But why, Sherlock? You left and never said anything--”  
John was surprised at how desperate his voice sounded. 

But Sherlock shook his head, firmly.  
“That’s everything I have to say on that matter now.”  
His voice spoke volumes of finality, and John had to look to the ground to keep himself from screaming.  
“I am very pissed off with you, Sherlock Holmes. You cannot imagine how much.” He managed to say between clenched teeth, shook off Sherlock’s arm, and jumped off the table, his fists clenched.  
“You utter--”  
But he didn’t get any further. A clicking noise from the door told them that someone was coming.


	5. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kisa, darling, thanx for being so outworldly patient while I rant about things.

**Chapter 5**  
  
**„Revelation“**  
  
**note: John becomes aware of how their case isn’t as simple as it seems**  
  


The door opened slowly, and the man raised his gun.  
“Don’t move if you know what’s good for you,” he said, motioning for them to stay put, while taking them in with a sardonic smile.  
“Jeez, I didn’t expect you back so soon, Sherlock Holmes.”

He turned his gaze to John.  
“You must be Dr. Watson, then. I have to tell you how I really enjoy that blog of yours. Although it is a little weird, seeing this junky filtered through your adoring eyes. My perception is wholly different.”  
John looked from the man to Sherlock and back to the man, who was grinning widely now.  
“Yes, I know you, and I have seen a lot of your friend Holmes - not only lately. He never meddled with my business, though. He let it thrive and prosper.”

Sherlock exhaled next to him and shifted uncomfortably. And then it dawned upon John: Sherlock must have known the drug dealers from past experiences, past drug abuse. But that couldn’t have been a very long time ago, otherwise he wouldn’t have mentioned Sherlock the way he did. So surely, that must mean…  
“Oh, no…”  
Tilting his head sideways, John saw Sherlock’s lips drawn into a tight line, confirming that John had come to the right conclusion. A feeling of utter disappointment settled in his stomach.

Sherlock was staring at the man at the door, who just smiled wider and stepped further into the room, gun ready in his hand.  
“Is that why we took this case?”  
John found his voice again, anger boiling high in his chest. How stupid had he been not to see it? Why would the homeless network inform Sherlock about this one drug lab among certainly dozens of them in London? And so soon after the dealers had escaped without anyone seeing their damn faces?!?  
“You knew who they were. You were just waiting for the final evidence from your network to show you exactly where you would find their lab…”  
He saw Sherlock nod.  
“Yes, but you mustn’t worry, John…”  
John turned around and gripped the edge of the table, his fingers turning into claws. He couldn’t believe it. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw that Sherlock had gone pale again. His dark curls contrasted sharply with his fair skin; his mouth was a colorless line. 

_So much for trust and camaraderie._  


John closed his eyes and tried to push his thoughts away. He would have to deal with them later, once they escaped. If they escaped. Looking at Sherlock just made him so angry… and so afraid at the same time.  
Sherlock had abandoned the table and was pacing the room slowly, his face a mask of business.

“Selling drugs to faulted misfits like me, and killing children because your chemist put too much detergent into your products, are two very different things,” John heard him say as he gripped the table harder with anger. Everything was going in slow motion again. He saw the man in his peripheral vision lean against the wall next to the door, which stood slightly ajar. Forcing himself to block out the noise Sherlock’s feet made on the dusty floor, he strained himself to hear other sounds from outside the room they had been locked into, but couldn’t. Perhaps the other two dealers were already done packing their lab equipment. It occurred to John that he and Sherlock had disturbed them at it, and that they knew what they looked like. 

John felt a sudden rush of adrenalin jarring through him, and without really processing what he was doing, he grabbed the telephone receiver off the table. He then turned around and used his momentum to hurl the device into the direction of the man, who was still lounging next to the door, hitting him square in the face.

A loud bang suddenly rang out, tearing the air. John was sure it must have been a bullet that had come loose from the man’s gun. He looked around wildly and saw Sherlock tackling the man, toppling over him, and pinning him to the ground. The tall detective grabbed the gun, but couldn’t hold onto it when he lost his balance and stumbled to the ground. In the blink of an eye John comprehended that Sherlock was having a hard time fighting the man down. They were still rolling on the floor, Sherlock on top, his elbow in the man’s face, when John threw himself into the game a second time, aiming a good kick at his head.

The man went limp instantly. John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and hurled him back to his feet. Their chests were heaving laboriously, their faces wild. When their eyes met, John saw the same look on Sherlock’s face that he had given him on the roof; his gaze intense and glistening. John’s heart gave a hard thud.  
“Sherlock, you okay?”  
“Yes. That was amazing, John.”  
“Yeah, come on, before he comes back around.”  
Sherlock nodded, lifted the gun off the floor, and checked the magazine. It proved to be empty, and they exchanged a look. John straightened his back and held his breath, motioning for Sherlock to keep quiet. They had to be quick now.

Creeping towards the door, John cautiously pushed his head into the space between the hinge and case, looking around. He still couldn’t hear anything. Maybe the other two drug dealers were still storing their material into the transporter in the yard. Sherlock appeared next to him in the door, and John instinctively grabbed his wrist, giving it a quick squeeze. He was relieved when Sherlock didn’t shy away.  
“Come on. Stay close to me.”

They silently left the office, their hearts beating fast, and ran to the door they had come through an hour ago. John caught Sherlock’s gaze again and Sherlock nodded, giving his elbow a tight squeeze in return. They could do this.

Sherlock went first, running into the dark alley in front of the storehouse, and vanished into darkness a second later. When no screams or shots came, John began to follow.  
“Hey, it’s them!”  
A bullet cracked, chipping the concrete next to him and John scrambled away from the storehouse. He followed Sherlock into the jumble of dark and empty streets. The moon had sunk very low, and wasn’t giving off much light. But he instantly found Sherlock, who waited for him in the darkness. John didn’t stop when he reached him, but grabbed his arm, and together they ran for all they were worth. They reached a junction, and Sherlock pushed John to the left. His heart was close to snapping, his lungs burned, and gusts of harsh breath were leaving him in rapid succession. Still, the adrenaline in his blood kept him going.

When they reached a second junction, John finally knew where they were. The main street wasn’t too far away, and they might have been able to escape into the subway or catch a stray cab. He felt his momentum pulling him straight ahead into the alley, but Sherlock yanked him to the right, and behind a dark batch of wooden trash. A few seconds later, he saw the two drug dealers crossing the junction. If he had kept running, they might have seen him.

“What now?” he whispered after a few seconds, out of breath. They were crouching lowly onto the ground. It was so dark around them, John could only barely make out Sherlock’s face.  
“Keep going. I can try to distract--” Sherlock answered but John cut him short.  
“You’re not leaving me again,” he said, shaking his head violently.  
“Forget about it.”  
John could feel Sherlock tense up. Then the detective bumped his knee on John’s as he turned to him.  
“John, I really…”  
His voice sounded rather hoarse. The part of John’s brain that wasn’t busy overlooking the street or being afraid put that aside given their current situation. He raised his hand to shush him, craning his neck to get a better look around.  
“You can tell me later, Sherlock. Where to, now?” he asked, his breath catching in his throat. He really wasn’t used to this amount of running anymore. 

He heard Sherlock inhale shakily.  
“If I remember correctly, there is a broken-down wall two streets from here. From there, we could escape into the next subway,” he heard Sherlock whisper, his chest heaving rapidly, his shoulder touching the side of John’s body with every breath.  
“Ready?”  
John smiled.  
“Ready when you are.”

They silently crept along, constantly on the lookout for their pursuers, but could neither hear nor see them. Sherlock walked very closely to him, now and again brushing the side of his body. John’s adrenaline-fogged brain was very much aware of every movement, every touch of Sherlock’s hand and elbow. He soon found it hard not to be distracted, and blood rushed to his face. At least he wasn’t cold anymore. 

John was looking sideways at Sherlock, wondering for a second exactly why there were touching so much all of a sudden. They’d always been a bit too close to each other but they’d never really touched. John’s confusion grew. In order to quell the effect Sherlock’s touch had on him, he increased his tempo, overtaking him. As they turned around the next bend, this probably saved them.

John immediately noticed the two men in a puddle of light which came off a street lantern. He instantly reacted and pushed Sherlock back into the dark, before another shot tore the air around them. Desperately trying to protect them both, he pushed Sherlock into a dark yard on their right and through a rusty gate. Clasping his sleeve tightly, they ran through the building, out of another door, and into a second yard. Here, Sherlock pulled him behind another batch of trash.

“We cannot outrun them, John, we have to hide.”  
Sherlock was out of breath by the time he finished, and John knew he was right. They were both tired and worn out from this chase. John was all but certain that their pursuers were very familiar with their surroundings, thus effectively keeping them from leaving the storehouse area. They locked eyes, their hiding spot well-lit enough so that John could see Sherlock’s flushed face. The floor beneath them creaked when he slumped against the brick wall behind them and slid to the ground. They had to rest, even if it was only for a short time. Their hiding place seemed to be safe enough for now. John could imagine only too well what would happen to them if they were found and he was prepared to do everything in his powers to not let it get that far.

His lip was throbbing madly by now. He must have bitten it in the chase. When he lifted his hands into his field of vision, he saw how dirty they were from hiding behind heaps of trash.

He looked at Sherlock, who had slid down next to him, eyes closed, curls matted to his sweaty forehead. Everything was quiet around them, the only sound was their labored breathing. When Sherlock opened his eyes again, John couldn’t look away. It suddenly hit him that they might not live to tell the tale this time.  
“Sherlock…”  
John’s chest suddenly felt like it would burst, when a rush of adrenaline, fear and affection swept through him. Sherlock must have sensed this, a small sound escaping his lips as he turned towards him and his hands shot out to grasp John’s shoulders. Sherlock pulled him in, and suddenly John was so terribly afraid to lose this ingenious, insane, beautiful man again, that was sitting next to him in the dirt, when he had just gotten him back. John suddenly felt like he’d wasted so much precious time. He didn’t know what conscious part of his brain took over when he pressed his body into Sherlock’s space, grabbing his collar. He felt Sherlock’s hands around him, his eyes locking onto his lips. It felt right.

_I am such a fool._  


They were breathing hard when John pulled Sherlock even closer. He heard the floor beneath them creak again, but his brain only barely registered it. His mouth crashed into Sherlock’s, effectively drowning out his train of thought. With Sherlock’s soft lips on his own, one hand in Sherlock’s hair, the other at his lapel, it all seemed unreal. To his utter surprise he felt Sherlock kiss him back, fiercely, fully enclosing him in his arms. They were both on their knees and Sherlock’s upper body tilted sideways against the wall. John slid half onto him, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, mouth to mouth…

There was nothing sweet about their kiss, and the way Sherlock pressed him to his chest and held him tightly made John think of a drowning man clinging on to dear life.

John was gasping heavily when they broke the kiss, his eyes shut tight, trying to hold his thoughts at bay. His lip was bleeding again and he could imagine how gloriously disheveled they must have looked. His face felt hot; his heart beat with a speed that had nothing to do with the exertion of running; but his hands were steady where they touched Sherlock. As he trapped Sherlock between himself and the wall, John experienced a second rush - affection, desire, confusion - crashing down on him. How could it be that Sherlock’s lips felt so good on his own? How could it be that Sherlock was kissing him back? So much for intending to not get involved… 

“John,” he heard Sherlock gasp, and felt himself drawn in again. There was a look in Sherlock’s eyes that John had never seen before. But, though he welcomed the thought with all his heart, he didn’t get to kiss Sherlock a second time.

The ground they were lying on suddenly creaked again. John saw Sherlock’s eyes widen, a startled cry on his lips, as the metal on their right gave way. The platform beneath them was tipping into a dark hollow beneath the ground, and material was tearing and breaking. John felt a sudden vertigo as they tumbled backwards into the pit. The last he saw, before he hit his head on a piece of rubbish, were Sherlock’s wide grey-green eyes locked into his, and the red-blue lights associated with police cars. Then pain exploded in his head and he passed out.


	6. Chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Kisa, my omni-potent beta-reader.
> 
> PS: I so fell for Mycroft; he is amazing. If I could spend an evening with a character from the series, I'd choose him. We'd have Scotch in front of a fire place and talk about politics.

**Chapter 6**  
  
**„Chances“**  
  
**note: John awakes in a hospital, Sherlock is muddied all over, and a very special guest is his usual charming self**  
  
  


When John awoke, the light of dawn flooded the room, covering everything in murky orange. He blinked his eyes and turned his head sideways, away from the light. He was lying on a flat and soft surface, a blanket covering his body. When he fully opened his eyes, he realised he was lying in a hospital bed. A dull ache filled his head.

He wasn’t alone, though, and once John had fully come around, he saw Sherlock’s coat hanging over a chair next to his bed. The man himself was staring out of the window when John opened his eyes, and for a moment, John was able to take in Sherlock’s slender form. The right sleeve of his shirt was thoroughly muddied up to his shoulder; his curls were messy; and he had his hands interlaced under his chin, giving him the look of a prayer. He appeared to be unhurt, and John was overwhelmed by a wave of relief that washed through him.

A minute later, there was a knock on the door. It opened, and a nurse stepped in.  
“Ah, Dr. Watson, you are awake.”  
Sherlock turned around and looked at him and John was momentarily angry with the nurse for disturbing him watching Sherlock, when, for once, the other man wasn’t watching him.  
“How are you feeling?”  
The nurse switched on the headlights and stepped next to his bed. Examining his head, she smiled.  
“Your head looks okay. It will heal quickly and cleanly, no concussion. We didn’t even have to stitch you up. You might feel a bit queasy. Shall I fetch you something to settle your stomach?”

John nodded and she left the room, but not without glancing at Sherlock, who still stood at the window. John’s stomach suddenly felt slack. People tended to notice so much more of Sherlock than they did of him, and for just a second, John permitted himself to look at Sherlock through an outsider’s eyes. Tall and elegant built, slender chest, piercing eyes. Satin curls framing a handsome face with ridiculously high cheekbones… Kissable mouth… He wondered if Sherlock knew his effect on most people. Well, the effect he had on them before he started insulting them or pissing them off…

John shut down his thoughts, because he tended to get sidetracked when he was nervous. Lifting the headpiece of his hospital bed with the remote control, he adjusted his position to sit a little more comfortable before he dared to look at Sherlock again. The slender detective was staring at him and John felt a faint warmth creeping into his ears and settling there.  
“Are you okay, Sherlock?” he inquired, finding it odd how Sherlock didn’t move away from the window. But the other man nodded twice, his eyes a wide pool of greyish green.

“What happened after we--” Their eyes met and the warmth in his ears crept onto his cheeks.  
“--after I passed out?”  
“Ah, not much, basically,” Sherlock answered, fidgeting, his shoulders tense, his eyes suddenly fixed on the floor.  
“Scotland Yard didn’t have trouble tracking your phone. Upon arrival, they were able to capture the two men who were trying to gun us down, and then came to get us out of the pit…”

Sherlock came over to the bed, and rigidly sat on the chair next to John, his long legs crossed awkwardly. Now that he was closer, John was aware of a nervous energy that was buzzing between them, emitting so many possibilities that John felt quite overwhelmed and intimidated. Grounding his knuckles, he looked Sherlock full in the face, and saw that he obviously hadn’t washed so far. There was dirt on his cheeks, little flakes of chipped wood in his hair, and something darker in the space between bottom lip and jaw bone that looked distinctively like blood.  
“Why didn’t you go home and change?”  
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”  
“I guess I am okay. This is a hospital, Sherlock.”  
“I just…”  
Sherlock fell quiet, closing his features and John had to avert his gaze to keep from blushing hotly.

They had kissed. In the middle of an adrenaline-fuelled chase where men with guns had tried to take them down. With all the anger and insecurity between them, he had grabbed Sherlock and kissed him. And Sherlock had kissed him back. John was feeling quite hot and a tad embarrassed because if it hadn’t been for the space between the bed and chair, and the door suddenly opening to allow the nurse in, tray in hands, he might have been tempted to do it again.

“Ah, so nice not seeing you in a hospital bed for change, Sherlock.” A voice resounded from the open door, and to John’s puzzlement, Mycroft Holmes swept into the room, umbrella dangling from his wrist, and a shopping bag in his hand.  
“I apologize, Dr. Watson. I trust you are alright.”

Turning to Sherlock, who had dashed out of his chair, Mycroft critically looked his brother up and down before furrowing his brows. His voice was full of disdain.  
“You look horrible, Sherlock. Why haven’t you been home to change your clothes? It must have been quite a run-in with these drug dealers of yours.”

John watched Sherlock rake his hands through his hair and litter the floor around him with flakes of wood and dust, his eyes sparkling furiously.  
“Mycroft, of course I shouldn’t be surprised to see you--”  
But he couldn’t finish his exclamation, for Mycroft impatiently waved his hand, stepping closer to Sherlock. John felt like a spectator in a theater performance.  
“You shouldn’t. My agents are checking on you every once in awhile, Sherlock. And just to make things clear, it was one of my men who called Scotland Yard.”

With these words, he pulled a small dark object from the insides of his suit jacket and tossed it onto John’s bed. Taking it in his hand, he was surprised to see his phone again - the one Sherlock had dumped into the gutter after he had called Lestrade and his people. Sherlock bristled at the sight of John’s phone. He and Mycroft were still standing in front of the bed, rocking back and forth in their verbal exchange.

“You don’t actually happened to have come across my phone as well? It’s always so tedious getting a device that isn’t instantly hacked by your department. I really thought that for once I was giving them quite a hard time.”  
But Mycroft only shrugged his shoulders.  
“We hacked it three weeks ago, while you were busy playing the remorseful fallen angel, finally returning home. You didn’t notice.”  
He took another phone out of his jacket and passed it over for Sherlock to take. It was obviously his. Sherlock hissed, but Mycroft didn’t let that disturb him much.  
“Ah, yes, little brother, two more things: I have taken it upon myself to at least bring you a new shirt.” Mycroft tossed him the shopping bag he had brought, and Sherlock caught it in midair, angrily glaring at his older brother.  
“There is a smear of blood on your jaw, I take it is Dr. Watson’s?”  
Sherlock instantly raised his hand to his mouth, furiously rubbing at his chin. John wasn’t sure if he actually saw a faint red covering his pale cheeks, because he was so covered in dust.

Sherlock was obviously losing patience with his older brother, and Mycroft made no effort of hiding just how much he enjoyed it.  
“Mycroft, what do you want? You didn’t leave your office just to make me wear a new shirt.”  
“No, how clever you are.”  
His voice took on a sudden soft tone.  
“Mummy wants to know if you’re alive, and how Dr. Watson is doing. So be a dear and give her a call. Dr. Watson, my pleasure.”  
He turned around and swept from the room, leaving a very agitated Sherlock who stormed off to the adjacent bathroom only to emerge a few minutes later; his upper body washed, and his shirt changed.


	7. Vertigo and Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kisa, my dear, thank you for being such a wonderful beta-reader.

**Chapter 7**  
  
**„Vertigo and Tears“**  
  
**note: It is not the fall that makes your heart stop beating, it is the landing**  
  


John really couldn’t say afterwards how it happened, but Sherlock was quite calm when he came out of the bathroom and took the chair next to John’s bed again. His face was clean now, and John had to admire Mycroft’s taste in fashion. The purple shirt suited Sherlock’s dark curls and fit him just perfectly. He noticed he was staring.

“You’ve got breakfast and pills,” Sherlock said, pointing to the tray the nurse had brought.  
“Isn’t that what people need when they had want to relax in the morning after a stressful night?”  
Sherlock got up and pulled the tray closer. He decidedly didn’t look at John when he bent over him to secure the bedside table, and suddenly it seemed like his hands were shaking. It was only for a moment, though, before Sherlock slumped back into his chair, hands folded over his chest.  
John looked at the little white roll on his tray, and the bleary glass bowl with brownish pudding, and took the cup of coffee. He made a face at the taste of the lukewarm concoction, and decided to try something else instead. He reached out his hand and his gaze flickered to Sherlock… who was watching him intently. John’s hand started to shake, and he gripped the edge of the bedside table.

“Have you eaten anything lately? Do you want the pudding?”  
Sherlock smiled, his eyes calm.  
“No, I don’t want the pudding.”  
“Are you sure? It’s probably the only edible thing on this tray.”  
“I am very sure. You go ahead.”

John took the little bowl and was surprised that the pudding actually tasted quite nice.  
Sherlock was silent while John ate, his gaze roaming the room and once in a while flickering back to John, as if to ensure he was still there.  
“What happened to my head?” John asked as he put the bowl back onto his breakfast tray. He comfortably slumped back into his up-right pillow, gazing at Sherlock.  
“You banged it on a piece of wood down in the pit and passed out. The thing we were sitting upon happened to be an old elevator platform and the frame broke when you--”

_When I crashed into you._  


“But the physician didn’t have to stitch up the wound, so they just bandaged it. You should be fine again by tomorrow.”  
John nodded, weirdly happy with how Sherlock’s voice had caught on the right words. He pushed the bedside table out of the way, feeling reckless.  
“Come sit by me, Sherlock.”

His heart was fluttering when he pushed his blanket and legs out of the way to make space on his bed, but he was relieved when Sherlock rose from his chair to sit close to him. John mustered up his courage and put his hand onto Sherlock’s arm.  
“You know, sometimes I think Mycroft is really obsessed with us. I wonder what the reason may be for that.”  
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. It felt heavily like they were having two very different conversations; one with words and one without.  
“I am sure he just wants to prove he’s omnipotent, that git. His behavior indeed is irritating. Not that I am surprise.. or complaining this time.”

To John’s utter surprise, Sherlock put his hand on top of his own, his skin soft and warm. When his eyes travelled back up to John’s face, he tilted his head shyly, his gaze flickering repeatedly to his lips. John found him adorable, but was too shy to act on this impulse.

“I’ve lost a considerable amount of innocence, decency and well-wishing to the world since I met you, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock’s hand that wasn’t holding his flew to his mouth, fingers touching his full bottom lip, a trace of shyness in his eyes.  
“I could say quite the same.”

It hit John how his words must have sounded, and what they were potentially implying. He blushed hard, the memory of the desperate kiss they shared vivid in his mind. 

_Get a grip, you’re a grown man._  


It made things a little better for him, though, that Sherlock’s face also took on a distinctive shade of red. They sat like that for a few moments before John felt Sherlock exhale, as if having come to a decision. He then leaned forward to gently kiss his forehead. John looked up at him, his heart feeling raw and tender and full of insecure affection towards the man who was leaning in so close to him.

Quieting his brain, he let his attraction to Sherlock take control. He raised his hand and cupped Sherlock’s face, thumb gently stroking his kissable bottom lip. They locked eyes and there was this peculiar something going on behind Sherlock’s grey-green once again. For a second, John thought Sherlock looked scared. But then he felt himself pulled in closer, very slowly, and his gaze locked on Sherlock’s mouth. He saw him whisper his name and stopped thinking. His eyes fluttered shut, and then Sherlock shyly kissed the space just below his chipped lip as John’s whole world came tumbling down.

But before they could engage in more, there was a knock on the door. A second later Lestrade walked into the room, followed by Detective Donovan. They seemed to be in the middle of an argument, because both were looking at each other when they came in, faces set in angry lines.  
John instantly snapped out of it. He pushed Sherlock off of the bed, his face blushing madly, his ears burning. Sherlock tumbled into his chair, looking nonplussed. There was a very awkward moment of silence in the room. But if Lestrade, looking at the pair of them as Sherlock straightened himself in the chair and John pushed his blanket back into place, had come to the right conclusion, he thankfully refrained from saying so. Donovan definitely hadn’t noticed because she was busy angrily putting the lid onto her coffee cup.  
“Hello freak,” she greeted Sherlock and stood back at the wall to drink her coffee.  
“Gavin, your timing is unfavourable.”  
Sherlock sounded furious, his voice a low growl. When he looked up at Lestrade, John had to cover his face with his hand for a second, desperately trying to quell his rapidly beating heart. His chest felt so full of conflicting emotions - joy, anger, embarrassment - that he didn’t know what to say or do.

But when Lestrade took a second chair from the little table in front of the window, the atmosphere turned all business. The D.I. sat on the other side of John’s bed, and after much assuring on John’s part that he was fine, Lestrade told them that the third man had escaped.

___________________________________

 

Lestrade had stayed for half an hour, telling them about the condition of the storehouse the drug lab had been in. Syringes, dirt and packages of medication had littered the floor. John had repeatedly glanced at Sherlock from the corner of his eyes, but Sherlock had said nothing. John had grown increasingly worried. When Lestrade had made Donovan bring two cups of decent tea, it hadn’t beneath her to show how much she had hated waiting on them.

When they were gone, there was an odd moment of silence before Sherlock rose and sat on the side of John’s bed again that he had abandoned before. John thought of their kiss when Sherlock’s weight shook the bed, but Lestrade’s visit and his description of the drug lab, along with his own imagination of Sherlock buying material there, had considerably sobered him.

They really needed to talk.

Knowing Sherlock as well as he did, he could see antagonistic emotions flying over his face: calculation, joy, panic… and embarrassment. John licked his lips. It seemed like everything had changed again in the past 30 minutes. Lestrade’s and Donovan’s visit had snapped him out of his emotional mood and brought him back to reality. When he looked over to Sherlock, John remembered that he had actually been really angry with him. For multiple reasons. He was getting angry again now. As much as their weird new situation - or whatever it was they were having - made him feel uncertain about himself and his feelings, he had to face the facts now, and not get sidetracked.

He cleared his throat.  
“Sherlock, I need you to be honest now.”  
Sherlock nodded, his look becoming first insecure, then blank. He crossed is arms over his lean chest. John decided to press on, nevertheless. This just had to be done.  
“I need to see your arms. Now.”

His words made Sherlock leave the bed, as if he’d been burned, but John hadn’t expected it to be simple in any event. He mirrored Sherlock in crossing his arms in front of his chest, and they stared at each other. But then, Sherlock’s glance eluded him after a few seconds by turning to the window, his back rigid. John tried a different approach, his voice turning sharp.  
“Did you take on the case because you knew the dealer?”  
He heard Sherlock exhale, but he still refused to answer. John felt his patience dwindling rapidly.  
“When will be the time for explanations, Sherlock? This is madness! Will you talk to me?”  
“No.”  
“Sherlock, this has to stop. How can I trust you? Yes, you came back, but you left me to believe you’re dead - and I don’t know why - and now it looks like you’re using drugs again. And then we-- That’s so frustrating.”  
John noticed how his voice shook on the last two sentences. He clamped his lips shut, steadying himself, only to continue a minute later, his voice low and urgent.  
“Sherlock, I know you knew the dealer. There are no two ways about it. You’re doing it again. Why? Are you already bored again? I want your supplies... and I swear this time I will tear the whole flat to pieces.”  
Sherlock let his shoulders slump down, and when he spoke, his voice came out in a whisper.  
“I know you’re disappointed with me, but I can’t. I am not doing this.”  
“What is it you don’t do? What scares you so? Look, it’s me you’re talking to, not some twat from off the streets. Me!”  
“I know, John, that’s the whole point.”  
Sherlock turned around and John nearly gasped at how his face suddenly looked. There was a lot of anger and anxiety behind his eyes, and it obviously took Sherlock a considerable amount of self-control not to let it spill. The other man must have seen his reaction quite clearly on his face, because he schooled it away within moments. His face turned blank, a tired and worn mask. His words came out in a strained whisper.  
“Why is everything emotion with you, John? I don’t do emotion.”  
He lowered his head and stepped in front of the bed, hands shaking.  
“Things cannot be changed in a rush, John. You’ve got to be patient with me--”

“I HAVE BEEN PATIENT FOR TWO BLOODY YEARS. BEING PATIENT WITH YOU WILL TAKE ME TO AN EARLY GRAVE. NOT THAT YOU WOULD KNOW…”

All color drained from Sherlock’s face.  
“It’s not important where I’ve been, what you need to understand is--”

But John cut him off.  
“No, it is important to me. And I am past being patient. For Christ’s sake, quit acting the martyr. You’ve already changed everything so much, truly you must see reason.”  
Sherlock’s gaze quivered and became genuinely perplexed.  
“What do you mean I changed everything? How?”  
“You utter cock! You changed everything when you kissed me back. I must know what's behind it all!”

They stared at each other in exasperation, but then Sherlock’s face turned blank again as he shook his head. All energy immediately left John’s body. He lowered his head as defeat washed through him, his voice becoming quiet.

“Then go home, Sherlock, or wherever you want to go. Just leave. You’re an expert at leaving without a word.”

He heard Sherlock exhale and then move towards him, grabbing his coat off of the chair next to John’s bed in silence. When the door clicked shut behind him a few seconds later, John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, fighting down tears.


	8. Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanx, as always because it is highly deserved, to my dauntless beta-reader Kisa.

**Chapter 8**  
  
**„Advice“**  
  
**author’s note: I sincerely fell for Mycroft. He is, after all, truly amazing and I could listen to him talk all day.**  
  


Sherlock didn’t return but John hadn’t really expected him to. He spent his day in a daze, trying not to ponder what had happened between them, failing gloriously and finally dozed off into an uneasy sleep.

He felt utterly shattered when he awoke in the early afternoon, head and heart hurting and asked for tranquillizers.

After a dreamless night’s sleep he awoke again early in the morning, feeling calm and in control of his senses again.

It was time to face his situation for what it truly was: an utter mess. It wasn’t that he regretted kissing Sherlock, showing him what was inside of him, even though parts of him wondered exactly when Sherlock Holmes had become a romantic issue in the first place. After all, at that moment it had happened he’d sincerely doubted they would live to tell the tale, anyway. John smirked, seeing the irony in it. As a matter of fact, it must have been quite visible in the past weeks for everybody who looked a bit closer. As people around them had, he reminded himself. That insight along with the fact that he hadn’t been able to see it for what it was, confused him tremendously. He wondered if Sherlock had seen it and if it had had affected his behaviour towards John.

And then there was the fact that Sherlock, for whatever reasons, refused to talk about what happened in the two years he was gone. And why these two years had happened in the first place. Moriarty was dead, he’d seen his body in the morgue, so there was no threat to be expected, wasn’t there? John had already tried so many different approaches to get Sherlock to talk about what had happened between him and Moriarty on the roof that day but the other man had turned him down every time. And with every approach John attempted the thing, whatever it was, grew bigger and took on a nastier shape in his head. He was getting increasingly desperate about it and wondered if, after their latest row, he’d get an answer at all.

And then, as if this all wasn’t enough anyhow, there was the drug issue. The media had cannibalized on the Sherlock’s “suicide” two years ago and had played it out for weeks. They had done the same when he resurfaced a few weeks ago along with columns, reports and stories about his damaged reputation. John still found bits of news about that online and in print nearly every day in different magazines and newspapers. The media was giving them a hard time winning back Sherlock’s good reputation and John was always glad when he read the approving and benevolent comments most users still shared on John’s blog, even though he hadn’t updated it in months or on several online papers. He wondered what the media would do if they knew about Sherlock’s renewed drug issues.

He really regretted the mess they had made of everything. But when he closed his eyes his feelings for Sherlock were the most important reason for yearning to learn about everything behind it all.

Carefully conjuring up Sherlock’s face in his mind he felt his blood surge through his veins to form a warm pool in his belly. The range of his feelings took him from confusion towards anger and impatience… to… what?  
If it would have been solely sexual desire, that could easily be remedied. But John was past delusion… it was more… so much more… making his body ache in places he didn’t know could hurt so bad. The last time he had suffered so much was when Sherlock had died. And that imprint on his very soul had never truly gone away…

Right from when they first met at Bart’s all this time ago Sherlock had been incredibly special. Because no matter what that ingenious madman did, John went along, covering his lack of social conformity, filling himself into the cracks and holes to even them out. Looking out for him. And Sherlock had always readily returned the favor, in his own peculiar way. But now John had the feeling things had gone terribly wrong between them and he was wondering whether or not Sherlock still trusted him as he used to do.

John was very aware how their relationship had always been weird but they had liked it, even relished in it. Of course they had never talked about it. It seemed that, as long as there were still boundaries between them, boundaries that had nothing to do with them perpetually ignoring how something like personal space even existed, boundaries they didn’t question, everything was fine.

Maybe John trying to make Sherlock confide in him had been too much to ask. Maybe sharing that desperate, mindless kiss had sent them over the edge into forbidden territory.

Sherlock had always lived according to his own rules and nothing else…

And then, yes, somehow Sherlock had kissed him back and fiercely so. He even tried to do it again, twice, before Lestrade’s visit had put it all to an end. Before it had gotten so out of hand. But what was he to make of that? John knew Sherlock cared a great deal for him, in his own twisted way…

His musing was interrupted when a certain carnal need made itself plain and he got out of the bed to go to the bathroom. His face in the mirror showed him a purple bruise on his jaw and a bandage around his head but his lip had already started to scab over. He growled to himself, his eyes roaming over his tired complexion, his mussy hair. He decided to take a quick shower now and soak in the bathtub later at home.

____________________________

 

He left the hospital a few hours later after a doctor had checked his head again, stripping off the bandage to replace it with a new one. Since he had only his clothes from the night before yesterday he walked out of the main entrance in muddied trousers and a badly stained jacket. Deciding to take a walk instead of immediately hailing a cab, he meandered through the streets, taking his time. He would have to face everything soon enough. It was a nice and sunny day, after all. When he reached a little bakery on a street corner he decided to treat himself to a sweet breakfast and decent coffee. Lifting his arm to open the door he noticed a black sleek car stopping next to him on the pavement and when he turned to fully look at it, Mycroft Holmes got out of the back door.  
“Good morning, Dr. Watson. May I offer you a ride home?”

John felt the corners of his mouth twitch. What was it with these Holmes brothers that made them so… irritating?  
“Yeah, but I’m going to get breakfast first. You too?”  
“Oh, just plain coffee for me, I wouldn’t want it to interfere with my training.”

John snorted but bit back a reproach and five minutes later he was sitting next to the older Holmes brother in the back of his car, both of them holding a paper cup of coffee in their hands, John gloomily nibbling on a brownie but soon gave up and put it into a pocket of his jacket.  
It seemed that facing everything apparently came his way earlier than he’d thought.  
“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said and gave him his diplomat smile that could mean everything and hide even more. His eyes, though, seemed a little wistful.  
“I might owe you an explanation.”  
Mycroft’s slim fingers encircled the hot coffee cup, holding it at a graceful angle. John was instantly reminded of Sherlock’s delicate hands and how the other man had touched him only two days ago. Scowling, he turned to the window.

“I don’t know what my brother told you about the past two years,” Mycroft said, as usually skipping the small talk and coming directly to the point.  
“But taking into consideration how you are walking through this glorious morning with no apparent need to go home, he probably hasn’t said anything at all.”  
His voice was dripping sarcasm and John huffed impatiently.

“Well, I am not proud of the role I played in the whole game. As you well know I have delivered information where I should have known better and kept you in the dark, so I have come to terms with… offering my advice in that matter of yours, Dr. Watson.”

John refused to react to this remark but his heart was beating treacherously all of a sudden and his hand that wasn’t holding his coffee cup curled into a tight fist.

“You may want to know why Sherlock didn’t tell you anything but that is not for me to say.”  
John huffed, shaking his head in disbelieve.  
“And what would your advice be worth then, Mycroft? Or are you offering me collateral to induce him to confess?”  
Mycroft chuckled but schooled it away quickly.  
“Quite an interesting choice of words. But I am afraid it is nothing quite so inept. As it is, my brother downright refused to see a therapist when I brought him back. He said he’s comfortable enough being home at 221B, solving cases with you, Dr. Watson,” he added when John’s head snapped around to stare at him.  
“Yes, considering the fact that I got him out of Serbia you are coming to the right conclusion. I did have a hand in his ventures. Indeed I did. He hunted Moriarty's men in Eastern Europe on my orders. As to the reason why, you will have to wait for him to tell you himself. But I never kept him from contacting you, that happened by his own doings. I assure you, it would have been tough but possible. He just never asked. But be that as it may, I am very sure you will convince him to talk when he is ready. It does ease my discomfort, though, that he hasn’t succumbed to drugs. Yet.”

Upon hearing the last sentence John shook his head viciously, his lips drawn into a tight line.  
“Then your men are not watching him sufficiently enough. I am sure he did buy drugs, I just never noticed the effects. But he is a great actor. We know that.”

“Well, surely you as his doctor will know best. I won’t interfere with your verdict.”  
Mycroft had seemed all business up until this moment but when he turned around John thought he saw something in his eyes, something… terrifyingly sad. It might have been just a fraud but all of a sudden Mycroft looked genuinely afflicted, his troubled eyes somehow belying his cool demeanor. It was just a moment, though, and then Mycroft was in control again.  
“But I think we can agree that my brother is headstrong and intransigent but you’re the one he trusts. If it doesn’t greatly interfere with your plans, do you think you could consider… watching him a bit longer?”

John found himself staring at Mycroft, he hadn’t even noticed how the car had pulled over onto the pavement in front of 221B Baker Street. He remained seated and looked Mycroft into the eyes.  
“Why, Mycroft, do you believe I can be of any help to you? It’s killing me not to know what is behind it all, because Moriarty was dead before Sherlock decided to fake his suicide. But I thank you for telling me you had your hands in all of what happened afterwards.”

Squaring his shoulders and licking his lips he went on.  
“It doesn’t even things up, though, and to tell you the truth I am really angry with both of you. But knowing Sherlock as we both do, I am not sure he is going to spill his heart any time soon. And as it presents itself certainly not to me.”  
“Why do you believe that, Dr. Watson? He came back to you and has stayed with you ever since. I don’t think he will leave again. You are angry with him but that is only understandable given your situation.”  
“That is not the point, Mycroft. I can handle anger, I just cannot handle this.”

John noticed how he had migrated towards Mycroft in the last minutes of their exchange. Finding it hard not to grab his collar and shake him he leant back towards the door, hand over his face, hurting.

“I wonder what I am to him if he cannot confide in me anymore. It’s all gone wrong but I wasn’t the one who let him down.”

He reached out his hand and opened the door but when he wearily pushed his legs out onto the pavement he heard Mycroft’s door open as well. He turned around and the other man was looking at him with a mocking smile on his face.  
“What you are? Seriously, Dr. Watson, if you don’t know--“  
He deliberately left the sentence unfinished, got back into his car and stopping on the next street corner John saw how he opened the window to throw his seemingly untouched coffee cup into a waste basket.


	9. Sad Tunes

**Chapter 9**  
  
**„Sad Tunes“**  
  
**note: John makes a discovery in Sherlock’s bedroom that makes him re-assess everything again**  
  


Mrs. Hudson was in the hallway when John opened the front door, a tray with two cups and a tiny sugar bowl in hands. It looked like she had just been upstairs in their flat.  
“Dear, how do you look? Are you fine? Sherlock has told me everything.”

_I sincerely doubt that._  


John waved her concerned look aside.  
“Is he upstairs?”

When Mrs. Hudson nodded, John made to pass her but she stepped in his way, an earnest look on her lined face.  
“He’s started to play the violin yesterday morning and has barely stopped for a cup of tea with me.”  
She shook her head, looking very maternal, making John feel a bit small all of a sudden. Whatever she saw in his eyes made her face fill with compassion and when she spoke her voice low and full of sympathy.  
“He’s changed, you know. And you’ve changed as well,” she said and it sounded a lot like she was just stating the obvious.  
“Don’t think I don’t see it because I am an old lady.” She gave him a troubled look and John was taken aback, his brain felt numb.  
“You’re not old...,” he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind and had to gather himself in the next second, his hand over his eyes. He heard her laugh.  
“That’s a nice thing to say, dear. I don’t want to interfere with your life, but you must know, whatever your… little domestic was about---“  
“It wasn’t just a little domestic, Mrs. Hudson.” John was surprised at how pained his voice sounded and he had to clear his throat before he could continue.  
“Mrs. Hudson, I am very tired and really need to get out of these dirty clothes.”  
He walked past her and gave her a smile before ascending the stairs. Mrs. Hudson seemed to linger for another moment, her eyes probably following him upstairs but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He just felt so tired.

Before he even had his hand on the doorknob, soft violin music streamed towards him and when he quietly opened the door he saw Sherlock standing at the window, the instrument at his chin and shoulder, the bow gracefully dancing over the sharp strings. John gaped and his heart started to ache.

Gently, so as not to disturb Sherlock, who had his back to him and was swaying lightly to the sound of his own playing, he shrugged out of his jacket to hang it on the hat stand next to the door. His gaze fell upon Sherlock’s coat and he grabbed the muddied sleeve without thinking. An idea formed in his brain and checking again whether Sherlock’s attention was still elsewhere John thoroughly searched his pockets. He was relieved when his hands came up empty.

The music stopped when he crossed the sitting room to get to the stairs leading to his room. Turning around he saw Sherlock watching him, the violin loosely hanging in his delicate hands.

“I never hide things in my coat, John, that would be too obvious.”  
Taking a step backwards John felt like his worst fears had just been confirmed. He rubbed his nose.  
“So you’re hiding something.”  
“I didn’t say that,” Sherlock replied and almost as an afterthought he said:  
“As it is, I am just not sharing all the details, that’s all. You would know if you’d been paying more attention to what I am saying, John.”

John couldn’t believe how matter-of-factly those words sounded. He kept his careful distance to the other man, biting his already raw lip. He felt the anger back in his belly, the warm feeling from only this morning gone.  
“I don’t like being lied to,” he snapped at Sherlock and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers to stop them from shaking.  
“Or taken for granted, that is.”  
There was so much tension between them. And both of them were very aware about it.

“I never took you for granted, John, never,” John heard Sherlock reply in that deep baritone of his and there was just a hint of trembling there, belying his calm and controlled demeanor. Suddenly John was so tired. He certainly didn’t feel in a condition to fight just now. He hung his head before looking at Sherlock again. If felt a bit like giving up, though, and his voice had lost all its sharpness when he said:  
“I don’t believe you, Sherlock, I just… don’t…”

Sherlock’s eyes seemed very old again and they looked at each other for another second before the buzzing of Sherlock’s phone interrupted.  
Picking the device out of his pocket Sherlock turned around, their conversation stalled abruptly.  
“I got to go.”

Lowering his gaze Sherlock placed the violin back in its case on the floor, his delicate hands carefully closing the lid. John turned around, biting his lip again in exasperation and refraining from moving towards Sherlock in a sudden urge to hit him. Feeling utterly spent on head and heart he walked to the staircase that lead up to his room and when he reached the top he heard the door shut - and Sherlock was gone.

________________________________________

 

Undressing in his bedroom John threw his soiled clothes onto the floor. He had taken a shower earlier but wearing the old garments on his way home made him long for a hot, long bath now. But that bliss had to wait. Tugging into sweatpants and a comfy jumper he stepped down the stairs again into the sitting room and began his thorough search of their whole flat.

The sitting room proved to be clean of drugs, supplies and likely material and John also made sure there was nothing amiss in the bathroom. He had checked all of Sherlock’s secret little hiding places, behind books, in cupboards, behind that loose tile above the bathroom mirror. The kitchen seemed okay, too, but John was very aware of the fact that, if Sherlock really wanted to hide anything from him, he would without a doubt succeed. The time was ticking by and John, instead of growing calmer when his search didn’t turn up anything, grew increasingly restless. He dreaded having to go into Sherlock’s bedroom and only end up being thoroughly disappointed if he did dig up evidence. He knew how Sherlock, having had the whole day alone in their flat, had had enough time to get rid of compromising evidence. John just had the feeling he needed to make absolutely sure the flat was clean.

When he couldn’t put it off any longer John opened the door to Sherlock’s bedroom. He had been into this room only a couple of times before. It had always, somehow, seemed to him that at least he was to take responsibility and respect social issues like private space. John felt unsure of himself when he started to pull out drawers and open cabin doors. He had to fight the urge to stroke his fingers over Sherlock’s button down shirts when he opened his clothes cabinet. He knew all of these shirts and not just because he was usually the one taking them to the laundry shop.

When he found nothing, he moved to the bed. Sherlock hadn’t slept in it last night, of that John was very sure. He gently lifted the dark blue duvet and soft cream sheets with both hands. It felt very intimate to him and his heartbeat accelerated. He was nervous and fought to resist the urge to press the sheets to his nose. Longing was building in him, a terribly sad longing towards the man inhabiting this bedroom. Being in here suddenly felt like a very sensitive, personal and highly intimate journey through his feelings towards the other man and he blushed at the thought of the words “Sherlock Holmes” and “romantic and sexual issue” in the same room. Gathering himself, he got down on his knees and looked under the bed.

There, in the surprisingly empty space under the bed, sat a small wooden box. It seemed a far too pristine location to be there by chance and John crawled into the narrow space to retrieve it, his fingers sweating. He sat on the floor in front of Sherlock’s bed and held the box in his hands, strong emotions washing through him. But then he felt the part of him that was so very concerned for Sherlock’s health and well-being take control and he opened the lid.

A small sheet of paper fell into his hands. It was labelled “John” in Sherlock’s elegant handwriting. Underneath he found what he had been looking for. Sherlock’s supplies. He felt his blood leave his face the second he took everything in, feeling his worst fears confirmed by pure and undeniable evidence. So he had been right about Sherlock’s renewed drug abuse. He felt shattered. But when he looked closer the whole thing just didn’t have the right feel to it. He scrambled through the supplies, taking out everything, emptying the box, the small scrap of paper clenched between his ring and little finger. And then it hit him: This was untouched material. And Sherlock had certainly known he would come in here to look for it. So why would he…? John inhaled shakily. More and more riddles.

__________________________________

 

He had taken the box downstairs after putting everything back into place in Sherlock’s bedroom. He knew it didn’t look like he had never been in there but it didn’t really matter, anyway. Sherlock would know in any case, had already known he’d come here to check and left the box within easy reach. John’s head had ached when he’s sat down on the couch and put said box on the coffee table in front of him. He had stared at it again for a couple of minutes, before, feeling overly dramatic, had taken it out along with old newspapers that had been residing on the floor next to the door for ages now in a rush and had burned everything in the next available trash bin. His chest was still heaving laboriously by the time he had gotten back into the sitting room and had tumbled down onto the couch, feeling utterly spent and tired. He had fallen asleep within seconds.


	10. Texting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again as always to my BAMF-beta-reader Kisa, who sometimes understands Sherlock better than she wants to.
> 
> author's note: If a text is written  
>  _like this_  
>  then it is either John thinking or John and Sherlock texting. If it gets too confusing, which I actually don't think it will, just feel free to drop me a line.

**Chapter 10**  
  
**„Texting“**  
  
**note: Texting Sherlock reveals more than he does talking**  
  
The next 27 hours seemed blend into each other. He had awoken in the morning after searching their flat, feeling widely confused about how he could have slept through half of the day and the night on the sofa in their sitting room but he’d been so incredibly exhausted. There were images in his head which felt dreamlike and unfixed, of warm skin on his cheeks when he had been so cold, of words whispered in the dark but it all was already slipping from him minutes after he’d woken in the light of an early tuesday morning. Like mist on a field in the morning; beautiful, unreal somehow and frustratingly impossible to hold onto. Only when he’d gotten up to fix himself a cup of tea had he noticed that Sherlock’s bedroom door stood ajar when he was 100% sure he’d closed it the day before. He himself was clad in a blanket that was still securely wrapped around him because he had taken it off the sofa with him. He could not remember having it with him when he had collapsed on the sofa 18 hours earlier. Sherlock remained absent and so John found himself with far too much time on his hands. Checking in with his colleagues at work he learned that they were filling in his shifts and that is was stressful but fine. On Wednesday afternoon he texted Sherlock to inquire where he was and if he was fine. The answer came immediately, informing him that Sherlock was safe and sound and currently busy in the morgue. A minute later his phone buzzed again. 

_How is the head? - SH_  


_Pretty much intact again but in need of a good wash._  


He felt incredibly stupid right after he hit the send-button. Sherlock’s answer only took ten seconds to arrive.

_I prefer my doctors whole and in full possession of their wits. Everything else would be a waste. - SH_  


John smiled, imagining how Sherlock’s slender fingers flashed over the screen to send the message as soon as possible. In this moment it was hard to be angry with Sherlock. John felt fatalistic and noticed again how lonely he felt in this flat without the other man. How lonely his life had been before Sherlock had insinuated himself in it and swept John with him by the sheer force of his personality.

John automatically put two cups on the counter before he realized Sherlock would not be in need of one at the moment. He was still staring down at the two cups when he heard a tap on the door and Mrs. Hudson entered the room with a tray in her hands.

“Good afternoon, dear.” She was all smiles and sparkling eyes, standing in the door and looking at him. He returned her smile readily.

“You must be in need of tea and proper company, spending so much time alone in your flat now that Sherlock only comes home at night,” she said and put two cups of tea, sugar bowl, teapot and the inevitable biscuits on the coffee table. John caught his breath.

“I haven’t seen Sherlock since monday midmorning here at home.”

“Oh, dear, he’s so busy. Well, you know him, can’t keep his fingers still if his life depended on it. It’s just sad to see him do it alone, but you will be fine soon. I’ve seen him late last night when he came in to change clothes and check on you. He said you were sleeping fine in your bedroom and so he took off again. I bet he hasn’t slept in days, he has.”

John’s brain felt dull and he was taken aback when he noticed how his heart had started to beat in double speed. Sherlock had checked on him while he was sleeping in his bedroom. Sherlock had never been to his bedroom before. As far as he knew. One never really knew with Sherlock, though.

Mrs. Hudson didn’t seem to notice his confusion, though.

“Sit down, sit down, let us have a cosy cup of tea now to pass the time, shall we? I might need a doctor’s advice for my hip.”

______________________________________

On Thursday afternoon John was in dire need of a bath. His scalp itched and his hair looked like a sodden haystack underneath the bandage. It was high time to get the thing off and be done with that. He wasn’t admitting the fact to himself in broad daylight that, if Sherlock really did check on him at night, he didn’t want to look like a beggar again. Or some helpless, wretched git.

He stripped in the bathroom and got in front of the mirror to check himself while hot water flowed into the tub behind him. His face didn’t look bad. The bruise, once purple and very sharp against his fair skin, was turning into an interesting shade of yellow now but that wasn’t something he could do anything about.

_I can try to sleep on that side of my face so he won’t have to see. I’d face the door in that position, anyway._  


He had to avert his eyes from the mirror the next second, feeling embarrassed.

Sinking back into the hot water whose steam had already totally obscured both mirror and window pane he was feeling more or less peaceful for the first time after he left the hospital. Of course he’d pondered Sherlock and their situation and everything, it was only natural. His thoughts had flown back to both the small wooden box and its potential meaning and their kiss and almost-kiss more or less on its own. He terribly missed the other man and their easy, comfortable relationship now that his head felt clear and he was relaxing in the tub, engulfed in foam, pleasant smell and hot water. Giving in to his imagination. There was no denying the longing his body ached with. Somehow the words “Sherlock”, “romantic issue” and “desire” had become mixed together in an indistinguishable form. He thought about touching himself for a moment but then dropped it, because it didn’t feel adequate and would only have offered the wrong kind of reconciliation. It wasn’t just sexual desire, it was more, so much more. He knew that now for sure even though he didn’t know what to do with it. And he didn’t know if it was wise to bring it to Sherlock’s attention.

Well, then again, maybe the other man already knew and that was why they’d argued so much, or rather John asked questions and Sherlock ignored him. He didn’t know if Sherlock was interested in that sort of thing in the first place but thinking back to their conversation about dating he was positive that at least Sherlock’s experiences in that field were terribly limited. If they existed at all. Not that the thought bothered him greatly. He’d be surprised if it wasn’t as it apparently presented itself. John was also a little surprised that the homosexual touch of it was no great matter to him. It wasn’t as if he was interested in men in general, he was solely interested in Sherlock.

Maybe that was why Sherlock avoided him. It was a mess. But Sherlock was his best friend and they had to make up at some point or John could never be happy again. They had already wasted too much time.

By the time John got out of the tub, his thoughts having turned in circles again and again, he was so restless and full of longing for the presence of the other man that he wished they would just talk about it and be done with it, no matter the consequences. Or just not talk about it but still be done. As long as they were going back to their normal, twisted and shockingly intense friendship. If that was what Sherlock wanted, if he wanted John to ignore the fact that the other man had left him in an emotional mess, twice, after he “died” and after he came back, he would grant him that wish. He was too weak and too miserable to fight anymore. If it meant being a coward but getting Sherlock back, he’d pay the price and deal with it.

They had just texted once two day ago and John had gone to bed early. While half waiting for Sherlock to show up at some point and half trying to ignore his longing for him to just do so, he had fallen asleep and had dreamed weird things again. Impressions of green and orange light interspersed with the smell of chloroform and cold smoke.

Now, as he dressed in comfy sweatpants again (he’d been wearing nothing but comfy stuff the past days, he was going to miss that, even though he certainly wouldn’t miss the useless amount of time on his hands that just made his thoughts circle around Sherlock and their unsolved tension that came along with it) it was becoming increasingly hard to defy the urge to text him again.

He sat on the sofa and switched on the telly, toying with his phone in hand. His head did not hurt anymore and once he’d taken off the bandage and washed off the dirt he was feeling decent again. He had just reached out his other hand to grab the bottle of rum, that was still standing there from a few days earlier (of course he’d gotten rid of the eyeballs in the progress of searching their flat), filled a glass and downed it when he felt he was calm and strong enough and it had to be now or never. He opened the message field on his phone.

_Are you okay?_  


The reply came within a few minutes.

_Yes, just busy. Triple murder. Nasty. All seemingly struck by lightning. Wrong. - SH_  


_Oh, I didn’t know Lestrade had a new case for you._  


It stung, Sherlock working on a case without him. John was feeling increasingly insecure when their conversation went on.

_I was busy with locating someone for him and that just came along. - SH_  


_Wouldn’t want to miss it, would you?_  


_No. - SH_  


_I like to solve riddles. - SH_  


_I know. It distracts you from worse._  


_It does. - SH_  


_It helps you to ignore how freaked up everything else is._  


_Yes. Would you say being struck by lightening leaves angry red dots and charred skin in different places all over the body? - SH_  


_No, a lightening bold would just char the area where it enters and where it leave the body._  


_I thought so. You should see the pattern over this person’s body. Tell-tale. - SH_  


_You could have taken me along._  


_You were hurt and I wanted you to get better first. - SH_  


_It’s boring without you, I must admit. Everybody is so dull. You make it bearable. - SH_  


_Thanks. When will I see you again?_  


_Soon. - SH_  


_Mind terribly? - SH_  


_What, waiting for you or having you not have me involved?_  


_Both. - SH_  


_It’s unusual._  


_Yes. I am sorry. - SH_  


_Are you truly okay, Sherlock? I am worried._  


_I am okay, I just needed space to think. - SH_  


_And you cannot think at our flat?_  


_No. I got to get back to work. I’ll text you. - SH_  


John was feeling at a loss somehow and it hit him how uncomfortable the flat felt to him without Sherlock. But the other man was evading him, that much was obvious. Sherlock needed space.

_Space from me?_  


John’s heart clenched together painfully.

He shook his head, at a loss. What had he done wrong? What was he misreading? God, it was heavily frustrating how much he suddenly felt like an intruder in his own flat and guilt washed over him. This was the place he felt at home. But was it also still home to Sherlock? The other man must feel strange because he could only come home at night so as to not run into John. Yes, he did check on him, though, if Mrs. Hudson wasn’t making things up. But how it must feel to him, sneaking into his own flat because things had gotten out of hand between them. John felt terrible. Confused. Left out. And somehow also left behind again.

His fingers hovered over the still open message field and he texted the next words in a rush to just get them off his heart.

_Do you want me to move out?_  


The reply came within seconds.

_Don’t be ludicrous. Why would I want that? - SH_  


_You’re my best friend. - SH_  


_Is that so? It feels like I’ve failed you somehow. You’re avoiding me._  


_You haven’t. Ever! I am sorry you believe that, there is no reason to. - SH_  


_I trust you, John. - SH_  


_I just don’t trust myself these days. - SH_  


_It’s okay, Sherlock. You don’t have to explicate if you don’t want to, I won’t ask again._  


_I might not share everything with you, John, but it doesn’t mean that you don’t mean anything to me. - SH_  


John’s finger shook violently when he tried to text an answer. But Sherlock was faster.

_Whatever you do, stay put, I won’t be long. - SH_  



	11. Every Time we kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanx goes to my wonderful beta-reader Kisa, who had a hard time to restrain me.

**Chapter 11**  
  
**„Every Time we kiss”“**  
  
**note: Every time Sherlock and John fall into attempting to kiss something tries to distract them**  
  


It wasn’t long before John heard the door click and when he turned around Sherlock was standing in the sitting room, all coat flaps and flushed high cheekbones as if a gust of cold wind had just blown him in. He took off his coat and shoes and John immediately noticed a bloody cut on this left eyebrow. He sighed inwardly and put his blanket aside to get up.  
“You got yourself hurt,” he stated and then as an afterthought he asked:  
“Tea?”

A few minutes later he’d pushed a hot cup of tea into Sherlock’s cold hands and made him sit on the couch rather than his chair. It was easier to tend the cut in the light coming off the couch lamp because daylight was rapidly fading. Sherlock hadn’t vetoed to John patching him up and when John sat next to him on the couch, their knees touching, to clean the cut, Sherlock’s gaze was like ever so often roaming the room but always flickering back to John’s face.

Being the good doctor John didn’t chide him when he cleaned the wound and checked if it had to be stitched. Deciding that he didn’t need to go to these extents he put iodine ointment onto a patch of cotton wool and dabbed at it. Sherlock winced but then kept his gaze fixed on the John’s jaw in silence. When John had put a band aid over his wound he leaned back with sight, while John put his medical kit away.

“This guy never stole her money and murdered her cat,” Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, his eyes on the screen of the television. He huffed in exasperation.  
“Look at his collar of his shirt.”  
John shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  
“Do people actually watch this nonsense and believe it, John?” Sherlock sounded incredulous and lifted his teacup to his lips to drink.  
“I am afraid people do, Sherlock. Not everybody is a genius. But I do agree, it’s nonsense, most of it.”

He chuckled, feeling weirdly tense now that he had shed his doctor mode again. Handling Sherlock when he needed to be patched up or fussed over, being close to him, touching him was one thing. But now that he couldn’t hide behind that excuse anymore he didn’t know what to do with himself. He felt bad and just so tired of it all. Looking down at Sherlock he felt his eyes sting.

“I knew it would be a bad idea exposing you to crap telly. It will just increase your general annoyance with the world,” he said and took his own teacup into his hands. He was standing in the middle on the room now and felt uncomfortable about where to sit. Sherlock was still on the couch and it looked like he was going to stay there, his delicate fingers playing absentmindedly with a pleat of John’s blanket. John realized how uncomfortable he looked the moment after it was getting too obvious and dropped down on the couch as well. He felt Sherlock’s gaze upon him before the other shifted uneasily against the pillows. The air around them felt unbearably heavy. And that probably was what made John yearn to work certain things off his chest.

“Listen, Sherlock,” he said, his voice too weak in his own ears, and he switched the telly volume to mute.  
“You are my friend and I am so glad I got you back.”  
Sherlock sat very still next to him, so John went on, working everything off his heart in a rush. It seemed like, after what they’d been through together in the past weeks, what he’d been through in the past four days, he needed to make things clear between them. He didn’t care about giving up and saying what he had to say didn’t feel like it.  
“Keep your secrets, if you must. If that’s what you need, okay. Just… don’t lie to me, Sherlock, please.”

John’s voice caught on the last words but the moment he finished he was feeling relieved. He’d made a final approach, no questions like he’d promised in his texting earlier, just statements, and it had felt okay. He wasn’t expecting an answer so he didn’t look at Sherlock but then he heard the other man inhale.  
“Thank you for saying this, John”, Sherlock said carefully.  
“You are a generous man and I appreciate that very much.”  
John turned to look at him and it was at that very moment that he saw a vast amount of emotions flood Sherlock’s face. He looked like he was suddenly cracked open. Then he exhaled deeply, lowered his gaze and slowly began to open the buttons of his left sleeve.  
“You wanted to check, didn’t you?”

John watched Sherlock, transfixed. The world had turned mute again but only for a second. He put his teacup back on the table.

When the sleeve was rolled up John carefully took Sherlock’s left arm into both his hands and stroked his thumb over the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s wrist up into the crook of his arm. Relieve washed through him. The skin was intact, no fresh cuts, no punctures, nothing. Only old scars. The doctor in him noted how Sherlock’s pulse buzzed beneath his fingertips. His hands were still cold but his skin shone like porcelain in the light of the sofa lamp.

“Thank you. Show me the other arm”, John said and his voice came out somewhat dry. Sherlock fumbled with the buttons on his right sleeve but after a moment John reached out to help him.

The veins on Sherlock’s right arms also proofed to be unscathed but John nevertheless let his fingertips circle upwards to the nicotine patch Sherlock had stuck to his skin. There were remains of glue from its predecessors and John touched these as well. His eyes remained fixed on Sherlock’s exposed arms and he felt very calm all of a sudden. Sherlock’s gaze was upon him but John didn’t let go.

They had sat like that in the hospital bed just a few days ago and Sherlock had leaned in to kiss him. And sitting here on their couch at home, John wished he would do it again; lean in and kiss him. Slowly, thoroughly, deeper than they had had a chance to at the hospital and certainly softer and sweeter than Sherlock had kissed him behind that batch of trash - when he had pressed John to his body like he’d never wanted to let go again, when the last thing they could have done was kiss before they lost the chance to. Before there was time to regret or screw it up completely. The thought hurt.

“What’s going on in this genius brain of yours?” John said quietly and bit his lip, feeling terribly sad. All potentialities, their friendship, everything depended on Sherlock trusting him again. He wondered what was keeping him and if he had, somehow, failed him in some way he couldn’t grasp.

He felt Sherlock tense up next to him and a moment later both his hands grabbed John’s.  
“I wanted to protect you, John. It’s the truth.”  
Sherlock’s eyes were very serious, yet incredibly tender and honest when John lifted his gaze to look at him. Sherlock sighed.  
“I know I’ve hurt you badly. I have given that matter a lot of thought in the past days. But what you need to understand is that it was an utter necessity at that point to have you believe I was a fraud. But, please, John--“ Sherlock’s voice faded and he had to clear his throat awkwardly.  
“It was only for your safety. It wasn’t because I wanted to lie or push you away. It was the best decision I could make back then but that doesn’t mean I don’t regret that I had to make it in the first place.”

John shook his head, adrenaline rushing through his body and now that he heard Sherlock say these words he knew that, whatever he had told himself the past few days, ignorance and forgiveness were two very separate things.  
“No,” he said and was a little surprised at how strained his voice sounded. And how deep his anger and hurt actually went.

“I had to deal with everything alone, Sherlock,” he lashed out.  
“You were gone and didn’t bother the wreckage you left me in. I didn’t know you had so much cruelty in you to let me watch you die.”  
John was having trouble breathing when he finished and his voice had broken on the last word. He’d deliberately chosen what he said because, for once, he wanted to hurt. He wanted to hurt Sherlock the way the other had hurt him and wanted to show how much pain he had caused him.

He closed his eyes for a second to calm himself but found that, when he opened them again, he couldn’t look at Sherlock. His nerves felt raw. His hands were shaking and he retrieved them from Sherlock’s and put them into his own lap. Sherlock didn’t hold onto him when he sensed the movement and let go. The air around them felt heavy.

“You had to have proof I was irrevocably dead. So you could let it be and move on. You could say it was an act of loyalty.”

John was on his feet the next moment and the sudden distance brought up between them kept him from grabbing Sherlock and pommelling him.  
“BUT YOU FUCKING WEREN’T DEAD! You were not dead and that was not loyalty.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, his pool of wide grey-green eyes gone dark in the fading light but his voice stayed very soft and rang with a certain finality, as if he was just stating the facts without emotion.  
“I wasn’t dead, yes. Molly helped me. She made sure I looked dead and then helped me vanish. Mycroft took care of the rest. I am not sorry I did it, because it meant keeping you save. I am just sorry I hurt you so much. I decided life with me around would only make you bait to trouble. You had to move on and that’s why I never contacted you.”

Sherlock’s words resounded in John’s head again and again until they felt like a heavy weight on his very soul. A weight he wanted to shake off. Moving on. Wasn’t that what he tried? Desperately tried? He laughed in exasperation.  
“Moving on didn’t work for me.”

Whatever his face was showing in this moment must have been so obvious that it made Sherlock furrow his brows in pain and he got up to his feet to take an uneasy step towards him. His lips were pressed into a tight line and for a second both men just looked at each other.  
“I know it didn’t.”  
Sherlock’s eyes were still insecure but there was also something else going on behind them.  
“John, I-- there is something I need to tell you-- just so we’re on the same page. I did all that, because--“  
Sherlock cleared his throat and his face looked very determined all of a sudden. He looked as if he was making a decision and when he finally reached it, his eyes turned very soft. He took another step towards John.  
“--because you-- are worth it.”  
Sherlock swallowed awkwardly and cleared his throat.  
“All the hardship, all the… everything. You are worth everything, John. It’s the truth,” he whispered and his eyes were huge pools of green. He looked terrified but at the same time so heartbreakingly honest, his face open, allowing John to read the words he had just said in his eyes again.

It took John a moment to start processing. 

Of all the things he’d expected, anticipated and feared, the words he had just heard Sherlock speak in his beautiful voice had never been part of any option.  
But when their potential meaning sank in, his whole world shifted irrevocably. He’d felt the first stirrings in the hospital on that bright sunday morning. His heart thudded painfully.  
“What--?”

A memory flashed through his mind like a snippet from a movie sequence. How Sherlock had looked at him, so pained and awkward, before he’d grabbed him behind that batch of trash and put their lips together and hold him tight.  
“I--”

John swallowed heavily against a lump in his throat that wouldn’t disappear and he gaped at Sherlock, opening his mouth only to close it again. Did Sherlock really just say that? And mean what John thought he meant? It was too easy to hope. One never knew with Sherlock. John’s chest felt tight. Because he just wanted to believe him. With all his heart. Be weak and just believe him.

Sherlock saved him an answer by determinedly stepping into his space to close one delicate hand around his left wrist, his voice almost pleading when he continued to speak.  
“Moriarty threatened to kill you if I didn’t die,” he said and let out a slow puff of breath that caressed John’s left cheek.  
“I couldn’t let that happen. John, you deserve nothing but the truth. I am sorry I didn’t have it in me to give it to you earlier.”

Sherlock exhaled shakily before he continued.  
“As I said before, I’ve done a lot of thinking in the past four days. Moriarty forced me to act when I hadn’t seen it coming. I went to Serbia to set it right. It took longer than I thought,” he said in that deep baritone of his and huffed with impatience. But then a soft glimmer appeared in his eyes.  
“I shall explain the details to you in due time. I left the wooden box in my room for you to find,” he rushed on when everything John could do was open his mouth and close it again a few times in silence.  
“I knew you would go looking for evidence and I won’t hide it from you that I thought about throwing it all to the wind and get a fix. That’s how I came into contact with these dealers. But then I decided against it. And left the box so you wouldn’t worry too much.”  
Sherlock harrumphed and gripped John’s hand tighter. His voice became very soft.  
“I have been a dire threat to your life, John. Forgive me for not telling you, for leaving you. I’m-- you are everything and if you let me, I’ll never leave you again. I’ll be by your side.”

John let out a shaky breath and looked up to Sherlock. He shook his head, incredulous.  
“Are you fucking kidding me? I just … if I let you…”  
His gaze roamed over Sherlock’s face in a mixture of hope and doubt, his brows furrowed. He huffed in frustration, coming up blank.  
“What is everything, Sherlock, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Their eyes locked when Sherlock exhaled, but instead of giving an answer, he took John’s hand in both his own, cradling it. The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and sowly, his eyes never leaving John’s, he lifted it up and pressed a gentle kiss into John’s palm.  
“You’re smart, I am sure you can suss it out yourself.”

John still didn’t have it in him to formulate an answer when a strong electric jolt raked through him, starting in the palm that Sherlock had just kissed and going straight into his chest.

He didn’t know how it happened but one moment he was standing there in the middle of their sitting room with Sherlock’s honest and yet so incredibly vulnerable eyes on his face and his confession in his ears. And the next he’d closed the distance between them and leaned his forehead onto Sherlock’s collarbone, his own hand still in Sherlock’s. His heart was pounding like it was trying to grow wings and fly away.

“I am sorry, too,” he uttered and found that it took him a considerable amount of strength to talk.  
Sherlock shook his head, his shoulders tense and a small sound escaped his lips when he put his head down next to John’s, his lips very close to his ear.  
“I thought about texting you, believe me. I thought about it so many times back then,” John heard the other whisper and he sounded so unsure, so very vulnerable and unlike himself, that John lifted his head a bit and touched his cheek to Sherlock’s in an attempt to reassure him and ease his pain a bit.

Inhaling deeply to muster his courage he noticed faint traces of cold smoke and the slight metallic smell of the morgue on him but it didn’t bother him. He inhaled again.  
“Don’t,” he said, his voice calm.  
“It’s okay.”  
He gripped Sherlock’s elbow with his free hand and let his nose travel up to Sherlock’s ear and into his dark curls and then he just knew.

“You tried to tell me before, Sherlock. I am sorry I wasn’t paying attention,” he said and Sherlock smiled, his ears getting red and hot.  
“Yes, I did, but it appears my competences lie elsewhere. I was afraid I’ve got it all wrong and-- kissed you for the wrong reason.”  
Sherlock adoringly stumbled over the word “kissed” and harrumphed. His arm that wasn’t holding onto his wrist had slowly lifted upwards to gently and hesitantly skim the side of John’s body and when it reached his shoulder, Sherlock held on tight for a moment before lifting it even higher to tenderly stroke his delicate fingers through a few strands of John’s sandy-blond hair.  
“And what does that mean?” John heard himself say and flinched because his voice sounded so daft in his ears.

But Sherlock, for once, didn’t seem to mind and his body didn’t draw back. Instead he sighed.  
“I missed you. So much. I was-- confused but didn’t want to regret letting another opportunity slip. Especially when it could—when it could have been the last I got. But when you were in that hospital bed after, to my own great surprise, I didn’t get us killed, I realized I should have kissed you because--“

John didn’t let him finish. Both his arms lifted as if on their own volition and John pressed himself firmly into Sherlock’s space, chest to chest, in the inevitable urge to be as close as he could possibly get.  
“You utter cock.”  
His hands slid into Sherlock’s hair at the nape of his neck. Their noses brushed and Sherlock stalled a few centimetres above him as if to let John have the final say. But John didn’t hesitate. He strained his calves and pushed up to bring their mouths together and Sherlock answered readily, a low growl in his chest that made John’s arms vibrate where they touched Sherlock.

Their kiss proved to be so very different from the first they’d shared. It was dry at first, hesitant and shy on both their parts, and then it turned firm and wet when John’s tongue touched Sherlock’s mouth and he opened it to grant John access. Sharp sparks of passion kindled in him and shot through his body to form a warm pool in his belly. He fought a hard battle to keep himself in check but every time his tongue brushed Sherlock’s in that slow and passionate dance, the other man let out a small moan and pressed himself closer and closer, thoroughly engulfing him in his long arms. Sherlock tasted of tea and light smoke but John couldn’t bring himself to mourn the fact that Sherlock obviously had smoked a sneaky cigarette despite the nicotine patches he had glued to his arm. John’s face was hot and his skin tingled where Sherlock’s hands touched him, stroked him, his body still a little tense as if he was afraid John might put a stop to this at every moment. With a pang John realized that he hadn’t been the only one hurting.

The buzzing of his phone on the sofa brought a stop to their movements against each other and he felt Sherlock pull away slightly to look at him.  
“It’s yours,” Sherlock said in a hoarse whisper, his breath catching in his throat. But John shook his head and pulled him in again.  
“Ignore it, just kiss me,” he breathed and brought their lips together again.

The buzzing stopped after a few seconds and John had already forgotten about it again, Sherlock’s hands at his jaw and at his waist made that only too easy, when it was suddenly Sherlock’s phone that made itself heard in his pocket.

Reluctantly Sherlock picked his right hand off John’s nape and fumbled in his pocket for the phone. His hands were trembling badly and he nearly dropped it.

It was Lestrade.  
“Can you…?”  
They exchanged glances and John took the phone off Sherlock’s hand and hit the take-button.  
“Greg, it’s John.”  
Lestrate’s sounded a bit bemused, his voice loud enough over the static that Sherlock, close as he stood with his left hand still at John’s waist, could listen to him, too.  
“John, you’re with Sherlock, good. I’ve just rang you up. I wanted to share news worth a 9 on Sherlock’s crime scale, and you will like it.”  
He sounded rather pleased with himself.  
“We’ve gotten hold on our prime suspect in the drug lab case, they are just bringing him in. Sherlock will be pleased, he spent the last three days locating him for us and digging up more evidence in the morgue.”  
John’s eyes darted upwards to meet Sherlock’s.  
“I need you two to come to the Yard to identify him and do some paperwork. How’s the head? Can you come first thing tomorrow?”

John was distracted when Sherlock shifted his weight a bit and put both his hands onto his waist, clearly impatient and already annoyed due to the phone call and its inappropriate timing. John looked up at him and sighed, trying to keep up with what Lestrade told him. Something Lestrade had said caugh his attention.  
“Even you already use Sherlock’s weird ranking system.”  
John sighed again.  
“We’ll be there, Greg. Good to hear you got that guy.”  
“Yes, isn’t that a real Sherlockian 9?” He heard Lestrade laugh.  
“Where the fuck is Sherlock, is he busy?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and before John could answer, he grabbed John’s hand that held the phone and put both to his ear.  
“Graham, your timing is again unfavourable.”  
Lestrade seemed puzzled.  
“Wait, Sherlock-- You told me to call you in a case of 9 and I thought…”  
“I am terribly busy. Talk to you tomorrow.”

He clicked the off-button and let the phone slide through his fingers onto the floor, before his attention snapped back to John. His nervousness seemed evaporated and John licked his lips. Sherlock’s eyes followed the movement.

“What? Rejecting a 9 and without the usual attitude?” John heard himself say and he chuckled because it all felt so weird and unreal again. He saw Sherlock’s lips crook into a lopsided smile, his eyes ablaze with light.  
“Well, the circumstances required a blatant act of restriction.”  
Sherlock’s gaze flickered to John’s lips as if he wanted to resume kissing him but didn’t quite know how to get there.  
“That was rather rude on Greg”, John stated. Sherlock huffed with annoyance.  
“I don’t care about rude,” he said with a touch of his usual demeanor and John smiled.  
“Imperious and arrogant does suit you better, Sherlock.”

The other smiled, too, fighting for composure when his hands cradled John’s skull. Then he leaned in and John pushed upwards. Their noses bumped and Sherlock nuzzled his into the space between John’s nose and cheek.  
“Does it? Well, then let me show you a 10 before something else gets in the way… If you like…”  
John’s face instantly flushed as did Sherlock’s but then he saw something in the other man’s eyes that made his heart do an odd lurch and start beating frantically against Sherlock’s chest.  
“I’d like that very much…”


	12. Reconciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such a long time since I last updated, sorry sorry. I've been so busy with a new project, "Glances", that I plan to post as soon as I am able.
> 
> Thanx as always to my badass beta-reader Kisa. My thanx also goes to Maik who helped me make it beautiful for John and Sherlock.

**Chapter 12**  
  
**„Reconciliation“**  
  
**note: Basically just a lot of smut that finally needs to happen**  
  


It had always been a known fact to John Watson, that there were things unimaginable that, to no one’s better or worse judgment, found their way into reality. Things one could not, in any case, be prepared for. When confronted with something with which that was the case he would either dig his nose into business, get it done and learn as much as possible or find a way to work around it and prepare for next time. He wasn’t much of an ignorer and had always prided himself with a certain boldness and a good thirst for both knowledge and imagination. The latter proved to be unreliable sometimes but he put that to human nature and not necessarily his own personality. Imagination had served him well most of the time, even though he wasn’t a great fan of getting lost in day dreaming. His practical nature had always restrained him in that matter.

Nothing in both his real and imaginary space had prepared him for the sheer amazement of having Sherlock Holmes laid out under him on the sofa. They had resumed kissing after that very untimely phone call and John had been a bit unsure about how to proceed. He’d taken Sherlock in his arms, and cursing their height difference under his breath, had buried his hands in Sherlock’s dark and satin curls. He had found an intensely vast amount of pleasure in letting his fingers glide through his soft hair, straighten out single curls and see them snap back into shape. Kissing proved to be quite a sensation as well now that he knew Sherlock really wanted to and there was actually time for delving headfirst into it.

Sherlock had surprised him genuinely with his shyness and a certain degree of awkwardness. John had wondered whether that stemmed from lack of past commitment, limited experience or just nerves. It was probably a combination of all three that made Sherlock tremble deliciously in his arms, his lips soon kiss-swollen, his look dazed and his hands clutching John’s body in a fascinating mixture of wonder, greed and desperation. Sherlock's hands had roved over his back, his chest, his shoulders and face to touch as much of John as he could. Sweet little sounds had escaped him and he had tilted his head back when John’s teeth had grazed over the pulse point at his throat, only to tighten his grip around him and blush down to his collarbones. His shirt was in the way, blocking John’s view, and John had wondered how far that blush actually extended.

Sherlock’s hands had stayed above the waistline at first but when John had grabbed a handful of his arse and had given it a proper squeeze, flushing heavily himself, his ears burning, Sherlock had gasped and reciprocated. With equal results.

They’d tumbled onto the sofa at some point in an uncoordinated heap of limps and there was nothing in John’s life comparable to the sensation of lying on top of each other while kissing. The way Sherlock had looked up at him, his eyes shy and innocent and at the same time so full of want and lust. How he had pulled John down for another kiss, his hands warm now, his lips pliant, his chest heaving against John's, could only be described as utterly overwhelming. Sherlock had always possessed a certain strange and virile beauty, but John had never felt so drawn to it before.

“I wanted this,” he whispered into Sherlock’s skin when his lips brushed Sherlock's throat, the longing and intensity of his own words going straight to John’s groin. Sherlock’s body gave a shudder and his arms tightened around him. John’s name fell from his lips, twice, and it was so full of meaning and emotion that John pressed two hard kisses to Sherlock’s mouth in the hope of letting them convey all his feelings. Because even though Sherlock had already confessed how he felt and had so evened the way for physical contact, John wasn’t ready to phrase his own feelings into words. Especially since their intensity along with the way he reacted to Sherlock writhing underneath him took him by quite a stupendous amount of surprise. He had been in love before but it had never felt so important.

Despite the fact that Sherlock had told him he didn’t do emotion, his eyes spoke a different language. They were pools of grey-green, glimmering in the soft orange light from the sofa lamp, and the way they fluttered shut when John pushed his hips down onto Sherlock’s, a low groan escaping his lips, made John’s head feel dizzy with want and desire. He didn’t care about all the bad things anymore, the anger, the arguments that had happened between them in the past weeks since Sherlock had come back. He just felt blissfully glad that he was here, that Sherlock was here, enjoying his company in a way John had never thought were part of any agenda at all.

Sherlock gave a spasmodic push upwards, grinding their hips together again. His leg that wasn’t trapped in between John and the back of the sofa lifted and wound its way around John, aligning their arousals and John’s heart went wild.

“Sherlock, oh god, what are you doing to me?”

Who would have thought Sherlock could be so damn seductive - while still wearing all his clothes? Neither of them had made a move towards getting rid of their respective garments, yet. They’d kept it on just this side of innocence but John was past illusion. He’d never wanted anyone so bad in his entire life. He just didn’t know how to get there with Sherlock. Even though Sherlock was fairly aroused himself. John could feel it through the fabric of his suit trousers.

Hell, if it had been anyone else John would have got down to business without a second thought, undressing the other and dragging them off to bed. But with Sherlock it felt different, sacred, as if the normal conditions, the normal parameters couldn’t be applied here. And Sherlock himself hadn’t done anything to change their situation so far, to let it tumble into perfectly new territory. He’d only kissed John, hands gripping his arms and shoulders, fingers raking through John’s hair, and had whispered his name again and again.

Maybe Sherlock didn’t know what to do, either. Maybe it was true what Mycroft had implied once, that Sherlock was a complete stranger to any kind of intimate contact.

The innuendo got stuck in John’s head and grew there. So when Sherlock arched his back and leaned in for another kiss, John brought his hands down onto his shoulders to restrain him.

“Sherlock, wait a second.”

His voice was breathless and it took him quite a considerable amount of self-control to push himself upwards and away from Sherlock’s warm and inviting body. It was just too easy to get carried away on this but John suddenly found he was a tad scared.

Sherlock fixated him and god John found he looked too beautiful and enticing to be true. The leg he had wrapped around John fell back onto the couch. He was panting, his lips red and swollen.

“John?”

Sherlock’s voice sounded strained and he had to blink, twice.

“Is this-- Christ, is this really okay for you?”

“Am I giving the impression it wasn’t?”

Sherlock looked up to him and when John didn’t answer he put his hands onto John’s hips and pushed them both a little upright so they could look at each properly.

John’s heart was crashing in his chest and for a second he was afraid he’d snapped Sherlock out of it. But Sherlock let his hands rest on John’s hips, one of his thumbs gently stroking the bit of skin where his shirt had come loose.

“Are you having second thoughts?” Sherlock asked and his voice carried a little edge.

John shook his head.

“No, I don’t. I just-- I don’t want to ruin things. You don’t have to do this only to have me forgive you.”

Sherlock sat very still all of a sudden.

“Forgiveness is not what I am aiming at. Not like this anyway.”

John blushed heavily and cut the look. Sherlock’s grip onto his hips and the small circles his thumb was doing on his skin kept him grounded and remain in place while Sherlock's eyes, large in their dimly-lit sitting room, tried to hold his gaze. John didn’t know why he hadn’t started sliding his hands under Sherlock’s shirt, dip into the waistband of his trousers and unwrap him. But a small part in him was not convinced, that these actions were in his best interests. Or in Sherlock’s.

“I recall myself saying that I stopped lying to you, John,” he heard Sherlock say. From his position John was for once taller than Sherlock and when he finally fixated him again, Sherlock was looking up at him, a concerned but honest look in his eyes.

“You said you don’t do casual, Sherlock. I don’t want to do something neither of us can take back.”

Sherlock gave a small incredulous laugh.

“This is not casual for me. Quite the opposite. I thought I’d made myself clear.”

John looked sheepish.

“I think you did but I am still trying to get all the pieces together.”

Sherlock’s voice was a soft purr.

“And what are you missing?”

Sherlock’s eyes showed everything but his full attention and his thumb stopped circling John’s hipbones. John slid off his hips to sit between his legs. In this position he was smaller again but the lost contact with Sherlock’s most private parts helped him clear his brain and made coherent thought possible again.

“I just want to make sure, I guess. What made you change your mind about--“

His chin dipped forward, taking in himself, Sherlock and how they were draped together on the sofa.

“It was adequate to make that decision," he stated matter-of-factly.

"And outweighing all my options made me see reason. I figured-- you wouldn’t take it too good if I kept secrets-- or restrains. So I don’t keep them anymore. I have to warn you, though. I don’t have a dating history and therefore it is beyond me to know how this is to be done properly but don’t think I am not comfortable here.”

He pursed his lips and John saw how his brain labored to work the right words into his mouth.

“I want to make amends, John. And I want to commit.”

“But you don’t do this, you don’t do-- this.”

Sherlock’s forehead puckered; he took a deep breath and closed his eyes and when he opened them again, John saw how scared and anxious he really was. For a second he was wondering if Sherlock might be afraid that John would change his mind and push him away. As if John would do something so utterly ridiculous. As if John could deny him anything.

“I might-- I might indeed need more data but I mean what I say--“

John cleared his throat.

“You said you’ve wanted this… And I want it, too, I want everything,” Sherlock whispered and lifted his hands to cup John’s face.

“Oh, Sherlock…”

It seemed like Sherlock, having once started to speak, needed to get everything off his chest.

“I didn’t know if it was enough for you. I-- I didn’t know I’d miss you so much-- need you so much. But when I came back you were so angry and I wanted to make you feel at ease first and then maybe-- when I had won your trust again--“

“You’ve never really lost it, Sherlock. Hell, I was so insecure about you all the time, I was afraid I’d failed or overtaxed you.”

John raised his hands to grab Sherlock’s wrists and found that they were shaking.

“Sherlock, on our second day all this time ago I shot a man just to have you save because I was deeply convinced my trust in you was justified. It is enough for me-- believe me, it is…”

He felt tears sting behind his eyes and his head tilted forward to rest against Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock’s sharp breath caressed his cheeks.

“My god, John, I am so sorry I didn’t say it earlier but I thought you’d moved on.”

“Never, where would I go without you--“

John’s voice got stuck in his throat but the dam was broken and then they were kissing again and Sherlock pulled him back onto the couch where John came to lie on top of him again and this time there were no restrains and nothing. Sherlock had let his guard down and had decided to trust him and John knew how he would never do anything that would betray him or make him regret that trust.

His hands found their way under Sherlock’s shirt and he popped the two lowest buttons. His fingers slit beneath the starched fabric and over the panes of his stomach that trembled under his touch. Sherlock shuddered deliciously when John’s fingers pinched one delicate nipple and a soft groan escaped him. If Sherlock really meant what he said, John wouldn’t hesitate any longer.

Their hips slotted together and John heavily cursed the presence of their trousers in his mind.

“God, Sherlock-- I want you so much…”

“Yes, god-- yes.”

Sherlock’s expression was utterly helpless but he’d never looked more lovable and enticing than in this moment. Both John's chest and trousers were suddenly too tight to bear.

John pushed himself offof the couch, using his momentum to pull Sherlock along. He took his hand in his own, and like Sherlock had done before, lifted it up to plant a soft kiss into Sherlock's palm.

“My bed or yours?” he whispered.

“Yours is too far away,” Sherlock said and, intertwining their fingers, took a step backwards down the hallway towards his own bedroom. John didn’t know whether he pushed or Sherlock pulled but they moved along, their eyes never leaving each other.

Sherlock let go of his hand at the door and swiftly moved around the bed to switch on a small light while John closed the door, a feeling of both finality and nervousness settling in his stomach. When he turned around he saw how Sherlock’s teeth worried his lower lip.

The bed was separating them and Sherlock looked at him, his gaze flickering repeatedly down onto matrass and linen, an expression like stage fright on his face. Without giving it much thought, John simply reached out his hand and brought his knees to rest onto the matrass, his feet dangling in mid-air.

“Come here, Sherlock.”

They met in the middle, both on their knees, and John brought one of his thighs in between Sherlock’s. Sliding up his hands he fumbled with the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt until he could push it off his slender shoulders. Sherlock’s own hands were trembling at John’s waist, clumsily trying to push the concealing garment upwards and John, never leaving his eyes, grabbed his own shirt and took it off without further ado.

“John…”

Sherlock’s hands came up, softly stroking from hips upwards over his abdomen and chest to his shoulders and back down again, skin to skin. There was nothing to hide anymore. Catching his lower lip between his teeth again Sherlock let his fingers rest onto John's hipbones. Neither of them said a word and the only sound that could be heard was their deep breathing. God, just looking at Sherlock, his face flushed down to his collarbones, was enough to make John want him more than he’d ever wanted anything before. It took him a lot of effort to take his time and not throw himself onto Sherlock, whose eyes were huge and tinged with awkwardness. But after a moment he squared his shoulders and determinedly reached down to rest his hands onto the fly of John’s trousers, where John’s met them.

“I won’t hurt you,” John whispered.

“I know.”

“Tell me when you’re not comfortable.”

The sound of Sherlock’s hands slowly unzipping John’s trousers almost bordered on the indecent.

“I don't expect to feel uncomfortable with you, John.”

John watched transfixed as those clever hands worked the fabric out of the way and then he lost the air from his lungs and the sense from his mind when Sherlock slowly dipped his fingers into his boxers.

The feeling was elevating and a low groan escaped John’s lips. Sherlock’s touch twitched something in him, something that made his body react in a rush. His hands came down to grab Sherlock’s hips and work his fly open in one fluid motion. Their mouths locked and it was pure sweetness and elation and wonder and desire and everything. He pushed himself up onto one food, Sherlock’s hand still in his pants, his long fingers moving clumsily over his erect cock. John’s higher position gave them a wider range and his hand slipped deeper, bunching the material of both pants and boxers.

John buried his hand likewise into Sherlock’s trousers and enveloped his cock while determinedly pushing Sherlock backwards with his full weight. Sherlock was gasping and trembling underneath him and John couldn’t get enough of him now. His lips roamed Sherlock’s face, throat, pulse point and collarbones, his teeth grazing Sherlock’s hot skin and when Sherlock leaned back onto one elbow, his fingers straining to remain in John’s pants, John slid down onto him to scatter urgent kisses all over his chest. Sherlock trembled deliciously, his fingers lost their grip and came up to stroke the sides of John’s waist instead. John couldn’t mourn the loss of their touch, though, because if Sherlock was really willing to give himself to him, John would take proper care of him first, give him everything and deny him nothing. Provide the perfect sensation. His heart did that odd lurching thing again. Apart from all the things he could imagine doing that Sherlock would allow him to do with him, he wanted to make him feel comfortable and cherished and save and…

“Lie back, Sherlock, I want to touch you.”

Imagining sex with Sherlock was something John had tried to avoid in the last days. Partly because it didn’t feel adequate to succumb to that sort of guilty pleasure when there were so many things unspoken between them. His heart might not have survived the comparison between everything that was potential between them, what his raw and wistful mind could come up with on the one side and their real situation on the other. And now he found he didn’t even have to start imagining anymore. He could just live it and do whatever Sherlock would let him do. He bent up and kissed him again. His presence felt intoxicating.

Sweet little sounds escaped Sherlock’s lips with every kiss John bestowed onto his body and John wondered momentarily who else had ever had the fabulous pleasure of doing what he was at the moment. When his lips arrived at his navel he dipped his tongue into it, making Sherlock shudder and gasp and roll his hips up to grind his arousal into John’s abdomen. His name fell from Sherlock’s lips like a prayer.

Christ, could this be any more seductive? John had glanced upwards the moment Sherlock’s hips ground against him. The way his mouth had fallen open and his hands pressed into the matrass, his fingers gripping fistfuls of linen and a deep moan tumbling from his lips, made John seize Sherlock’s pants and yank them down unceremoniously.

It took a bit of uncoordinated and awkward manoeuvring, but when Sherlock was lying naked underneath him with John’s hands on his hips and arse - and what a glorious arse it was, John had to make a mental note of getting a good look at it the next available moment - it was just the next logical step to hoist one of his legs onto his shoulder and nuzzle the tender skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh with his nose. Sherlock gave an odd sound, something in between a moan and a sob, and his legs spasmed.

“John, my god… John.”

“It’s all right, Sherlock, do you trust me?”

“That is a weird question to ask now-- oh--“

A second loud moan drowned out any other coherent speech and made John’s blood rush straight into his groins. He had to push his own arousal hard into the matrass and roll his hips. The duvet and the remains of his trousers had him both moaning and shuddering and he opened his mouth without further ado or internal debating to take Sherlock in, his tongue sliding over hard and warm flesh, over the little slit at his glans, while slender hips desperately tried to rock upwards. Sherlock tangled the fingers of one hand into his hair and was practically melting under him. It seemed like the part of his brain that was usually stalling every human notion and every interest Sherlock might have had towards other people, had floated away. And, damn, John would make sure it’d stay away. All that mattered at the moment - and risking a look upwards to Sherlock’s face, flushed and contorted into pleasured agony, only confirmed it - was Sherlock’s lean, naked body under him, his cock on his tongue and his sweet cries in his ears. His warm skin everywhere and the incredibility of sharing pleasure with being together like that.

John bobbed his head up and down and felt elated when bittersweet pre-come leaked into his mouth. Sherlock moaned devastatingly and bit into the base of his left thumb to stifle the sound. He seemed very close to the edge after only a few sucks of John’s mouth and tongue and John would have gladly pushed him over, swallow him down and worry about his own erection later. But Sherlock stiffened and withdraw, sliding away from him. John looked up into wild grey-green eyes.

“No, stop,” Sherlock panted, sitting up. It seemed to take all his strength to keep from falling back onto the mattress and just let John ravish him until it was too late to share.

“Not like that, I don’t want to come like that. I want to look at you.”

He cupped John’s face and his hand was trembling badly. A rush of embarrassment surged through John when he realized he’d gotten completely carried away. If this really was all new to Sherlock, and John was far to embarrassed to even try and suss it out, or worse, ask him, he had to grant him a moment to psych himself up. And then carry on, slow.

But Sherlock seemed not to hold it against him. His eyes were blown wide with want and need.

“My god, I never knew you had such passion in you, John.”

His voice sounded ragged and he had to close his eyes and breath deeply in the attempt to keep himself in check. His leg slit from John’s shoulder and John sat up on his knees, his trousers unbearably tight.

“It’s all yours,” he said and to his surprise Sherlock laughed.

“I can tell. But I cannot have you have me like that. Come here.”

He reached out his hands but instead of drawing him in again, he lifted John up onto his knees and began pushing down his pants and boxers. John watched him, his mind strangely detached, as Sherlock pushed the garments down his thighs and made him sit back, so he could pull them off and discard them. They joined the rest of their clothes in an untidy heap on the floor. Sherlock’s gaze was roaming over him and his hands soon followed suit. Then he took him in his arms and tipped backwards, taking John with him. They shuddered deliciously when their bodies touched without any separating fabric between them. Sherlock opened his legs to cradle John between them, their cocks touching for the first time.

“It’s so beautiful, John…”

Sherlock’s voice was like velvet and when he kissed his temple, the gesture was so tender and full of trust that something in John’s heart nearly broke.

“Oh, Sherlock… You are…”

He kissed him fiercely and wound their hands together, pushing them down on either side of Sherlock’s head and when he moved his hips against Sherlock’s it was sweet and intense and so painfully arousing that both of them gasped in unison. Sherlock's eyes were half-closed and his fingers tightened their grip around John’s.

“That’s what I want,” Sherlock whispered and rolled his hips upwards against John’s, making them both gasp again.

“Good.”

John pushed against him and it was overwhelming how that simple gesture, that easy movement had Sherlock shuddering and throwing his head back into the pillow. He was moaning in a way that made John’s ears tingle, low and clear, with every breath John drove from him every time he rocked their hips together. The intensity was madening. The skin of their bellies soon turned slick from sweat and pre-come, making their movements even sweeter and smoother.

"You have me so close," Sherlock breathed, arching his back to intensify their contact, his eyes dark with pleasure. John rolled his hips, his lips parted, before he gave a vicious little thrust.

"Come for me, then", he whispered and licked his lips, giving another vicious thrust that Sherlock answered with a soft cry. A heavy tremor shook him and when he came, his breath shattered into a million little pieces und a hot wetness bloomed between them where their cocks were trapped between their bellies. His legs around John spasmed, tightening the space around John’s own cock. Not that he needed the extra sensation, though. Seeing Sherlock roll back his eyes and listening to his sweet cries, his hips jerking upwards, clearly drove him towards breaking point. He thrust his hips forwards and then it was too much to bear anymore. John’s mouth shaped around a final moan and heat exploded in his groins, before his release joint Sherlock’s on the trembling panes of his pale stomach.

John collapsed onto Sherlock’s slack body. Their fingers, still painfully tight intertwined, came loose and Sherlock hugged him close despite the mess on his lower body. He kissed John's temple, his forehead, every part of him his lips could reach and it was heaven because John was here and Sherlock was with him and it was hell because they were in no fit state to immediately engage again.

John lifted his head and saw Sherlock look at him, an incredible intensity going on behind his eyes and suddenly John had to laugh, all the tension falling off of him and he kissed Sherlock flat on the mouth, his breath hitching in his throat.

“I’ll never let you go again, consider yourself warned.”

Sherlock’s answering smile was wide and breathless, his eyes sparkling.

“Duly noted.”


	13. Transport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter and I really had such a good time writing this story.  
> Thank you so much for sharing this with me, guys.
> 
> Kisa, darling, thank you for sticking with me until the end. I might have another story for you soon.

**Chapter 13 Epilogue**  
  
**„Transport“**  
  
**note: just a little aftermath**  
  


They had resumed kissing after John had picked his shirt off the floor and had tried to clean them both of the sticky fluids. Sherlock had watched him attentively, his face alight with calm consciousness. John had practically bathed in Sherlock’s attention and they had smiled at each other in easy complacency. John’s stomach still felt a little damp but it couldn’t be helped. He found that he couldn’t possibly make himself leave the bed to go to the bathroom. So he had thrown his shirt back onto the floor and turned onto his side to face Sherlock. For a moment he was unsure of what to do, but he soon found out that Sherlock was actually, and surprisingly, quite the cuddler. He had taken him into his arms and John had started to play with his satin curls again, pulling single strands up between his fingertips and letting them snap back into shape. Sherlock’s low sounds of contentment had filled his chest to the brim and he was feeling so fortunate and at ease like he hadn’t done in years. They had been a little surprised that it had only been half past eight by the time John looked up to check the alarm clock on the bedside table. Then they had talked for hours like they never had before and ordered in when Sherlock’s stomach had started to rumble. His cheeks had flushed with a distinctive red and John had instantly started to laugh and had kissed Sherlock again and again, whispering endearments like a smitten teenager, because he couldn’t contain himself. And Sherlock had smiled widely with every term John had favoured him with.

They had eaten pasta in bed, still naked and completely at ease with their company and when John had bent over Sherlock to kiss him again, new passion kindling in him, Sherlock had readily opened his arms and legs for him, his sweet little moans guiding the way to more delightful pleasure. They had made love with their hands and mouths, taking their time, exploring what they liked and what felt most intense. Sherlock had seemed unsure about how far John wanted to proceed with him but John had only shaken his head. There would be time enough for bolder approach later; for now he was contend with letting his tongue and fingers travel over Sherlock’s whole body in the need to find out what made him shudder most with pleasure. Sherlock, to John’s contentment, had been completely unafraid to do the same. They had left the bed afterwards to go to the bathroom and get themselves cleaned, only to return to bed as soon as possible, where Sherlock had fallen asleep in John’s arms.

When John had awoken, Sherlock’s arm was draped over his stomach, his curls wild and his face relaxed in slumber. The alarm clock had shown him that it was only eight o’clock in the morning and John had spent the best part of a delightful hour watching Sherlock sleep. It was really hard not to feel peaceful and when the lurching of his own heart was anything to go by, John knew that he had never been so happy in a very long time.

Sherlock finally stirred and woke, nuzzling his nose into John’s shoulder.  
“Hey, good morning,” John murmured with the wish to make Sherlock wake softly because he didn’t want to spoil him a glorious morning.

Their first morning after.

Sherlock stretched his long limps and turned onto his stomach, his hair tousled and his eyes small from sleep. John mirrored him and they were both tilting their heads to look at each other. Sherlock smiled and his face was open and unguarded.  
“It’s lovely to sleep next to someone, John. I never knew.”  
John smiled in return.  
“Depends on the someone, I guess.”  
“Yes, it does.”  
Sherlock hoisted himself up on his elbows after he had pushed his curls out of his face. A wistful look came into his eyes.  
“As much as I’d prefer to stay in bed with you, Scotland Yard is still on the agenda. I didn’t dream that, did I?”  
John chuckled quietly.  
“Still on.”  
“I was afraid you’d say that.”  
Sherlock gave John’s face a quick look-over.  
“Do me a favour and go alone, I need to buy a new phone and give my brother hell.”  
“Sure. Greg probably prefers me to do the paperwork, seeing as I am a lot more patient with him than you are,” he teased and Sherlock rolled his eyes in mock drama. Almost as an afterthought John said:  
“Shall we meet for lunch?”  
To his surprise Sherlock confirmed with a nod and his eyes crinkled up.  
“I was under the impression that I owe you dinner and drinks, but lunch is fine with me.”  
John really couldn’t help how his heart fluttered in his chest and his cheeks turned a slight red.

They bickered affectionately for a few minutes, bathing in each other’s attention. Sharing chaste but by no means less enthusiastic kisses. But then Sherlock’s forehead contorted and John watched him recall something that had happened last night.  
“Why did Lestrade call you yesterday evening before he called me? I was very explicit when I told him to let me know when they’d gotten hold of their suspect.”  
John snorted.  
“Maybe he likes talking to me better than he does to you. You always give him the feeling he’s a kindergartener.”  
“That’s not just a feeling, I assure you. You go to Scotland Yard, paperwork is so dull.”  
John nodded and lifted his hand to stroke over Sherlock shoulder down onto his back and arse. He’d gotten his proper look at Sherlock’s glorious backside last night and the memory made him smile. He’d for sure be smiling a lot today.  
“Sherlock, you know, sometimes I think you’re only putting up with me so you don’t actually have to talk to people. Or be nice to them.”  
He shook his head in mockery, feeling at ease when Sherlock turned to him with an incredulous expression on his face.  
“As appealing as your deduction skills sometimes are, John, I am quite sure by now that you are very much aware of the fact that you are more. A lot more.”  
Sherlock had moved closer to him and bumping their noses together, he locked eyes with John’s.  
“I can tell,” John answered, laughter lurking behind his eyes.  
“But you know, there is something I was wondering about, Sherlock, and I would be very happy to receive your answer.”  
“What would you like to know?”  
John stalled the question by sharing a languid kiss, feeling utterly smitten again.  
“I was just wondering what happened to transport?”

The way Sherlock’s face flushed and he averted his gaze made him laugh out loud. He heard Sherlock huff in exasperation.  
“Okay, I grant you that joke on my expanse, John. If I am not very much mistaken you showed me last night. Twice.”  
John was still laughing.  
“You are priceless, Sherlock,” he managed to say before Sherlock rolled his eyes and picked up his pillow to dump it unceremoniously onto John’s head.  
“I am so glad I possess the ability to amuse you so much. This from the man who believes in the completely daft superstition of clinking glasses because he’s afraid of bad sex.”  
John shook with suppressed mirth and had to bite his lower lip.  
“I wouldn’t exactly call if afraid. But superstition mostly has a true piece to it. You cannot be sure it wouldn’t have been bad if I hadn’t clinked glasses so many times in the past.”

Sherlock cracked a fond smile.  
“You are being utterly absurd, John. Sexual intercourse is first and foremost a matter of individual perception and, as it appears in our case, is intensified by romantic involvement. So if last night is anything to go by—as far as I am concerned you needn’t be afraid. I am certainly not.”  
“Your choice of words, Sherlock… spoken like a true romantic at heart.”  
John pressed his lips onto Sherlock’s forehead, lifting his hand and playing with a strand of his dark and messy curls. Sherlock looked at him and his eyes suddenly became very wistful and shy again.  
“John, I hope you can forgive me someday, ” he whispered, his tone guarded and very serious.

John returned his look for a few seconds before he shoved the pillow out of the way to take Sherlock’s hand. He intertwined their fingers, his lips a tight line.  
“Don’t ever say that again. Ever! I absolutely love you, you know that? But I swear to you I will strangle you if you ever do--“

He couldn’t finish his sentence because a startled cry had fallen from Sherlock’s lips and his eyes had turned very wide. And then he was kissing him, deep and sensuous, wounding his naked form under John’s body again, caging him in his arms, his legs locking behind John’s knees. When he whispered “Take me, John, I am yours.” it sounded like a command and John knew that New Scotland Yard had to wait a little longer today.

 

The end

 

Disclaimer:  
I do not own Sherlock but if I did, I’d give him to John.


End file.
